


Full Immersion

by Eggspert



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Asexual Romance, Asexuality, But there's fluff I swear to the Maker, Cuddling, Dissociation, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, Haha I said assburn, Hurt/Comfort, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, MGiT, Magic and shit, Main OC is not the Herald, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Okay so Thedas might be a tad darker than usual, Original Character-centric, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Solas (Dragon Age) is Grim and Fatalistic, Swearing, Y'all I ain't kidding this is some slow. Ass. Burn., no love triangles, thank the maker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 75,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eggspert/pseuds/Eggspert
Summary: “Let us go,” Leliana gestures for me to follow.I shrug, intrigued at the prospect of going off-script so soon, “guess I'll see you on the other side, Kaaras.”"You'd better!" She calls. Then the door shuts between us, and suddenly I am in a freezing village of people who hate me with only a trained assassin for company.I am so dead.OR:An asexual college student lands in Thedas, discovers she has magic, and miserably fails in her efforts to stay away from the Dread Wolf.





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> This is really sort of a long writing exercise for me. I'm trying to learn. Tell me whatcha like, whatcha don't like, and I'll try to figure out how I can improve.

“Get up! Human, wake up!” The unfamiliar voice that drags me from my stupor is raspy and colored with panic.

Blearily, I peel my eyes open. “What?” I groan, trying to focus enough to see more than a blurry grey mush.

“Yes, you're awake! Look, I need you to tell me what this glowing shit is. These guys won't give me jack–,” the voice, cut off by a kick to the stomach, belongs to a massive woman with curling horns capped in metal and dressed in mercenary's garb. That's all well and good and weird as shit, but the thing that draws my eye is the green glow emanating from her left hand. Her teeth are clenched, trying to keep herself from crying out in pain. _This is fucking Dragon Age: Inquisition, that's the fucking Anchor, and it's attached to fucking Adaar._

I move to help her, and that's when I notice the thick rope securely binding my wrists together. “Who's the kinky bastard that thought this up?” 

That wins a snort from the qunari.

“Silence, both of you. We await the Nightingale and Seeker Pentaghast’s arrival,” a younger man brandishes his blade first at me, then at Adaar. I don't shrink back from it, instead leveling an irritated look at its wielder. The lack of fear in my eyes only seems to increase his own. _It makes more sense for Cassandra to take longer, I suppose. It's not as if she and Leliana would be lurking around outside, timing their entrance for when the Inquisitor wakes up._

“Oh, please, if you planned to kill us we'd be dead. Dungeons are for people wanted alive, at least until their purpose is fulfilled,” Adaar narrows her eyes at the armored man. “You are not the only one who seeks answers. I do not plan on running, but I trust you will permit me to speak to my fellow prisoner.” The Tal-Vashoth turns to me, “I am Kaaras Adaar. What are you called, human?”

I blink. “Oh. Rosalind. You can call me Ross, I guess. Everybody else does.”

“Ross, then. Do you remember anything at all about how we got here? Any reason we're here together, considering we've never met before?”

 _I can't exactly say that the last thing I remember is sitting in front of a textbook in the middle of the night wishing I wasn't immune to the effects of caffeine._ I decide to go with what's safe. “No, not particularly. I remember the Conclave,” _technically true_ , “but I have absolutely no idea how I got here.” _Also true._

“It is the same for me,” Kaaras frowns. “Though I can recall a strange dream–”

“Well that's right convenient, innit?” a pasty faced guard spits at my feet. His grin is marred by crooked yellow teeth. “The two bitches we found in the rubble of the fuckin’ Conclave can't remember–”

Cassandra slams open the door, cutting off the buffoon before he can finish. Leliana trails in behind her. Kaaras tracks them warily, clearly thinking about what Pudgy McGee has let slip. _The rubble of the Conclave_. The Anchor flares up again, drawing a pained cry from her lips.

Cassandra circles around us, scowling. “Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now,” she snarls. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you two.”

“You think we're responsible,” Kaaras leans forward, squinting through the hazy torchlight.

“Explain this,” Cassandra hisses, gripping Kaaras’ left arm. The Anchor pops angrily.

“I can't,” Kaaras mutters.

“What do you mean, you can't?”

“I don't know what that is, or how it got there,” Kaaras insists, squaring her shoulders.

Lunging forward, Cassandra grips a fistful of the qunari's tunic. “You're lying!” 

“We need her, Cassandra,” Leliana murmurs, pulling the Seeker away.

“And you?” Cassandra growls. I can't help but shrink back from the ferocity of her expression. “Did you have something to do with this, prisoner?”

I shake my head. “No. I am sorry that I cannot be the easy answer to your questions, but I would help uncover the truth if you would let me.”

Leliana sighs, addressing both Kaaras and I. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

Kaaras scrunches her eyebrows together, concentrating. “I remember running. Things were chasing me. And then... a woman?”

“A woman?” Leliana crosses her arms, incredulous.

“She reached out to me. I…” Kaaras trails off, at a loss for words.

“And what can you recall?” The spymaster’s mouth twists as she looks at me. Closing my eyes, I think back to the timespan after falling asleep at my desk. It's slippery to latch onto, but eventually a snippet of conversation filters into my brain.

 **My, my, aren't you a fine specimen? A bright little spirit, both adventurer and philosopher. Such great potential. Yes, I think you will do quite nicely.**  

_What. In. The. Actual. Fuck. That isn't the normal voice inside my head. Right?_

_No. We sound nothing alike. Honestly, I'm irked that you even have to ask. That is very clearly male._

Realizing that I have yet to answer Leliana, I piece together a reply, “I remember a voice. I think it belonged to a man.”

“A man?” Leliana presses, even more skeptical. “Did you know him? What did he say?”

“No,” I shake my head. 'He said I had ‘great potential’ for something. I don't know what." 

Cassandra grips Leliana’s arm, pulling her away from Kaaras and I. “Go to the forward camp with her, Leliana. I will take the qunari to the rift.”

“I'm not going with you?” I ask Cassandra. _This is new._ Leliana kneels at my feet, cutting through my bindings with ease. Alarmed at the discoloration of my wrists, I do my best to rub some feeling back into them.

“I see no reason for you to accompany us. You are not the one with the mark.”

_That actually makes sense._

“Let us go,” Leliana gestures for me to follow.

I shrug, intrigued at the prospect of going off-script so soon, “guess I'll see you on the other side, Kaaras.”

"You'd better!" She calls. Then the door shuts between us, and suddenly I am in a freezing village of people who hate me with only a trained assassin for company. 

_I am so dead._


	2. Rosalind Won't Abandon Ship yo, Let's Slay Some Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like me some Hamilton, hence the title.
> 
> EDIT: Due to some extremely good points brought up in the comments section, I've added some dialogue to explain why Ross can hold her own in a fight. Namely, she can't...really... At least not on her own, and at least not at this point in time.

* * *

Before leaving Haven, Leliana asks what sort of weapons I would prefer.

**The bow, the quiver, and the daggers. Take those.**

_What? Why?_

**Just do it. Trust me.**

Although I am wary of this new voice in my head, I do as it suggests. She equips me without fuss. This is _very_ different from Cassandra's behavior.

“Why are you even allowing me to have weapons?” I wonder, testing the draw on the bow. It’s simple, sturdy, and after a few tries I can get a nocked arrow to my cheek in less than four seconds. Everything I could ask for from a stock weapon.

Leliana glances at me from the corner of her eye. “I'd rather not have to focus on defending you all the way to the Temple. Besides,” she continues, “if it turns out that you are not as honest as I would care for, I will put an arrow in your back faster than you can blink.”

“Fair enough,” I agree. "Although, I, um, I don't know how much help I'll be in battle."

**For the time being, you shall be more than competent. The trial period has not yet worn off.**

_Okay, bud. What the actual fuck._

Leliana fills me in on the Breach, the mark, demons, how Kaaras and I reportedly fell out of the Fade. I find my eyes pulled to the massive green vortex in the sky quite often. Something about it makes my hair stand on end, both physically and metaphorically. Between that and the sight of so much snow in one place, I'm barely listening to Leliana at all.

My attire looks about the Thedosian equivalent of my faded _Jaws_ t-shirt and sweatpants, comprised of a plain grey tunic, fraying breeches, and worn boots. I feel every gust of wind as though it was hitting my bare skin; sharp stones on the path poke painfully into the thin soles of my boots. _I’m from the Gulf Coast, dammit. Throw me in a hot mosquito-infested marshland and I’d live, albeit unpleasantly. I’m not built to take the fucking Frostback Mountains._

“There are wraiths up ahead,” Leliana warns, silently indicating that we split up. I nod, crunching through snow to kneel behind an upturned wagon. Between us, two vaguely skeletal entities drift aimlessly _._ I nock an arrow with numb fingers, aiming for the wraith closest to me. Leliana does the same.

I let my arrow fly, but it skims past the thing and lands a few feet to the right.

**Higher, and more to the left. Draw as far as you're able.**

Cursing, I adjust my aim and hit the spirit in the back. It turns, conjuring a ball of energy. I get two more arrows in before the orb hits me. I double over, overcome with nausea. When I look up, the wraith is gone, and I see one of Leliana's arrows embedded in the snow amongst mine.

“Thank you,” I mutter toward the voice in my head. _It's been a long while since my last archery class._ I'm more athletic than I look. In childhood, I learned how to move so as to never fully flatten my feet against the ground, mostly utilizing the heels and balls of my feet to creep silently over creaky floorboards. Yoga, swimming, cardio, and strength training have been a part of my weekly routine for a few years now thanks to the college fitness center, so I'm not completely out of my league just yet.

“When confronted with a wraith, you can either shoot faster, shoot truer, or learn to take a hit,” Leliana advises, wiping ectoplasm from the tip of an arrow.  

I nod, turning the advice over in my head. Now that I know what to expect from one, they shouldn't be _too_ much of a problem in the future.

“We are nearly to the forward camp.” Leliana informs me, setting a swifter pace.

“Anything particularly vexing we should anticipate?” I ask, exhaling thick white plumes.

 _“_ Other than demons? I shouldn't think so,” she answers blandly.

I hum in acknowledgement, continuing to run in silence. _What a strange world this is, where that is a perfectly normal thing to say._ As we near the camp, the path grows more and more congested with the mangled and burned bodies of men, women, and children. I see a Chantry member performing a last rite ceremony over the carcass of a little girl. Her chest is clawed open, intestines spilling red onto the snow.

The odor of rotting flesh, warm and pungent, seeps into my consciousness until it's all I can process. I slide to my knees, throwing up a stomach full of bile _._

“First time seeing dead?” Leliana’s voice is faintly sympathetic.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak at the moment.   _There'll be a lot of dead. A lot of wounded. Just go cold. Block it out. Pretend they're organisms on a practical pinned in… unique positions._

_This is so very real. Are you sure we're dreaming?_

_We have to be. It's the only explanation that makes sense, right?_

_...right._

The shade appears out of nowhere, spindly arms already raised to deliver what should've been a devastating blow. Reflexes I have no right possessing take over. I have no time to nock an arrow. Dropping my bow and lunging to the side, I feel the thing’s claws barely skim past my leg. 

**There, in between those armored plates of skin. Then again, where its neck meets it's spine. Block everything else out but this. Go. Now.**

I plunge a dagger into its side, the other into its upper back, and pull myself on top of it. Grunting, I sink both knives into its neck, bracing myself as it careens to the ground. The impact knocks the wind out of me.

_Voice. You're still freaking me the hell out, I hope you realize that._

**Hush. My job is to keep you alive for now. You can trust me.**

_I don't._

**But you will follow my direction?**

_So long as it is reasonable, sure. I will admit that if not for you I'd probably be demon chow right about now._

**I'll count my blessings.**

Picking myself up, I sheathe my blades, sling the bow over my shoulder, and rejoin Leliana. We continue like that for a good distance. In no time at all, we’re at the forward camp. “Open the gate!”

“Yes, Sister!” A muffled cry comes from behind the wall. Slowly, the massive doors creak open and we pass through. Several soldiers greet Leliana but draw back when their eyes meet mine. They fall to muttering amongst themselves.

“No, Sister Leliana would never allow the bitch that killed the Divine to-”

“But why else would an armed civilian be out here?”

“That _is_ her! Jeremy was part of the patrol that found them and he said-”

“Hey, is it just me or, ignoring the sweat and blood, is she not one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen?”

“Nicholas, you’d fuck anything with an ass and tits. Maybe leave the Divine-killer alone, eh?”

 _Divine-killer_. I block most of it out after that, lifting my chin and straightening my spine. _I have done nothing wrong._ The gate shuts with an ominous boom. It's a struggle to tamp down on the sensation of being penned in, despite the open mountain air.

Leliana stiffens, muttering, “Chancellor Roderick.” I follow her line of sight to find the chancellor in the midst of a heated argument with a soldier. _Really, when is the man ever not arguing?_ He dismisses the soldier with a wave of his hand upon seeing Leliana and I, sour face twisting into a sneer.  

“Leliana, why _exactly_ is the prisoner unbound and armed to the teeth?” Roderick hisses. “You there, come here,” he gestures at a couple of disgruntled soldiers. “Disarm her, restrain her, and prepare to send her to Val Royeaux for execution.”

“Disregard that order,” Leliana says firmly. Her tone allows for no disobedience.

“How can you ask that of them?” I cock an eyebrow at the Chantry official, aware of the two men's eyes darting nervously between Roderick, Leliana, and myself. _Their loyalties are split. I have to be delicate, so no cussing Roderick out._ “Instead of actively attempting to sort out pieces of the truth, which I can practically _assure_ you will be found at the Temple, you would haul me and Kaaras to Val Royeaux in a bid for power over a realm that would be both chaotic and short-lived.” His spluttering and attempts to defend himself are somewhat amusing.

I narrow my eyes in predatory fashion. “Roderick, I truly believe that you mean well. Have faith in your Maker. He has not forsaken you, any of you,” I let my gaze linger on each of them in turn, though perhaps longest on Leliana. “Whether this is to test loyalties between friends, unify different people to a single cause, or simply test his children's level of devotion to him, this must be a part of his plan, unless you would suggest that _anything_ might be beyond the Maker's dominion.” _What a sight: an atheistic Earthling preaching to  Chantry members about the wonders of Andrastianism._

“Now is not the time to abandon hope,” I emphasize this to the two soldiers, “not when we are so very close to the root of the problem. This battle is not yet over.” _Roderick can't denounce his faith in front of Leliana and three other witnesses if he hopes to retain his clout in the Chantry. Not that there is much of a Chantry to have clout in at the moment._

Sliding my quiver off my shoulder and slowly setting my other weapons on the cobblestones beneath by my feet, I raise my arms in surrender. “I've seen the bodies of countless men, women, and children out there, so if you truly believe I would be better served twiddling my thumbs in the safety of confinement rather than fighting to avenge those who have fallen, by all means, take me away.” The soldiers’ jaws clench, and I know they've made their decision.

Chancellor Roderick catches onto this as well. He relents, scowling, “Just get out of my sight for the time being, prisoner.” With Leliana’s assent, I retrieve my weapons, leaving the Chancellor and the Sister to themselves. Leliana can figure her way around a verbal minefield well enough.

“Excuse me,” I approach a burly man mending a hole in a pair of trousers. He's a wall of muscle with an auburn beard and warm brown eyes. “Is there any elfroot potion to spare? I think I'll need it.” _Asking for a cloak or decent pair of boots might be pushing it._

“As will many soldiers returning from the field of battle,” the man frowns. His accent is strange, Scandinavian I think. I don't think I've ever heard it on a Thedosian character before. “Still, I suppose you _will_ be on the field of battle. Here,” he escorts me to a supply crate and fishes out a belt with eight potion pouches, a few bags, and space for my dagger sheaths to hang. I eagerly wrap it around my waist, discarding my old one. “I will give you two,” he decides, shoving flasks of murky red liquid into my arms. “Put them to good use.”

“Thank you, Serah…” I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

“Olsen,” he supplies.

“Olsen,” I repeat, half-smiling at the large man. He seems like a decent fellow, even while absentmindedly running a thumb over the hilt of his sword.  “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

“The Anderfels,” Olsen puffs out his chest proudly. “Hossberg, more specifically.” Meeting my small smile with a bemused one of his own.  “You did not kill the Divine,” he states.

“No, I did not,” I say, more serious. “What makes you come to that conclusion?”

“I know evil, and though it comes in all shapes and sizes, it is not like you, woman,” he looks down his crooked nose at me. “My country is far from here. The Divine is not as close to us as she was to these people. I have lost no family, no friends, and so my eyes and my heart are not blinded with guilt. Others will see soon enough.”

I bow my head respectfully, “That means a great deal to me. I intend to prove my innocence by the end of today.”

_Yeah, and what happens if your voice isn't in that weird echo thing in the Temple? It's only a snippet of what happened._

_Then that means I'm doubly innocent because I had absolutely nothing to do with it._

_You know that without being able to visually or audibly confirm or deny your presence there, that's no evidence at all._

Suddenly, there’s shouting from outside the gate. Demons screech and howl in hideous fashion. Olsen unsheathes his sword and I slip an arrow from my quiver, just in case something happens and they get through. _A rift must have opened there after we arrived._

This precaution proves unnecessary, as when the gates are opened it is only Cassandra, Varric, Kaaras, and the Dread Wolf himself. I won't lie, a warm shiver races down my spine when I lay eyes on him. Three years of borderline obsession with formulating arguments against the stupid egg and his stupid plan will do that to a girl. Luckily, his attention is fixed firmly on the Anchor. I duck my head, waiting for the icy air to cool my burning cheeks and cursing myself for being a complete and utter fool. _Come on, you got this. You're in control. Seven years of theatre, babe. Plant your feet, ground yourself, roll your shoulders back, and you're good to go._

Now that I can see Kaaras properly, I feel my jaw go partially slack. Fully upright, she’s about three feet taller than I am with lavender skin and dark horns that sweep majestically over her skull. Stark white hair is tied into tight braids down to the nape of her neck. Slung over her back resides a massive greatsword. _Two-handed qunari warrior? She’ll give Bull a run for his money._

Quietly slipping between Solas and Varric, I take up a position at Kaaras’ right arm. She grants me a weary nod, and I note the sheen of sweat upon her brow. Roderick and Cassandra's back and forth drags me back to the present. Instead of Roderick’s demands to haul Kaaras back to Val Royeaux, it is really only a discussion about which path to take to the Temple.

“You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers,” Roderick insists.

“We must get to the Temple. It’s the quickest route,” Cassandra stands her ground.

“But not the safest,” Leliana cuts in. _Finally, we're back on-script._ “Our forces can charge as a distraction, while we go through the mountains.”

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It is too risky.”

“Listen to me. Abandon this now, before more lives are lost,” Roderick attempts to reason with them.

Just then, the Breach rumbles, and the swirling clouds around it become darker and thicker. The Anchor crackles with bright energy. Kaaras jerks her wrist away from her body, wincing.

“What do you think we should do?” Cassandra consults the Vashoth.

Kaaras looks to me and back at Cassandra in disbelief, raising her eyebrows. “ _Now_ you’re asking me what I think?”

“You have the mark,” Solas points out.

_Yes, because having a glowy hand is the best foundation for a stable power hierarchy._

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra steps forward. “Since we cannot agree on our own…” she trails off.

Kaaras scowls, looking down at me. “What do you think? I happen to like the idea of charging into the heat of battle and cutting down a horde of demons, but a second opinion would be nice.”

Pretending to think carefully about these choices as though I hadn't thought through them at least thirty four times previously, I say, “The mountain path would be a better option. You said there were scouts lost in the area, Cassandra; perhaps they are still up there. I think that may be more worthwhile. Besides, I have no doubt we will encounter our fair share of demons in that direction.”

“Sounds good to me,” Kaaras agrees, clapping me roughly on the shoulder.

Wordlessly accepting our decision, Cassandra turns to the Left Hand of the Divine. “Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone."

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” Roderick murmurs forebodingly. The Seeker in question ignores him, head held high, intent on moving forward. I find myself falling into step behind her and Kaaras without realizing it.

_Hey, Voice. You said something about a trial period?_

**You have until the battle with the Pride demon. I can help you survive in combat until then. Afterward, you are on your own, so I suggest that you pay attention.**

_Lucky for you, I'm a fast learner._


	3. The Insufferable Smart-Ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I'm trying to keep a chapter buffer and life keeps happening to me.

A human woman stumbles past myself and the storyteller, greasy brown hair falling limply to her shoulders. I vaguely recognize her as the other prisoner. She was not my main concern. A bow and quiver are strapped to her back and a pair of blades hang from around her waist. She is silent for the most part, until the qunari bearing my magic asks for her opinion on what route we should take regarding the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She delivers a short explanation, taken seriously despite her relatively minimal role in this matter, and then we are journeying onwards.  My thoughts remain mostly occupied with the Breach, yet another of my blunders, looming over the mountain in spectacular fashion.

“Tch,” the human woman hisses, hurriedly jumping out of the snow and back onto the cobblestones. The noise draws me away from my pondering and to her crumbling bootsoles. Now that it occurs to me, nearly every article of her clothing is in a state of disrepair, extremely impractical for this climate. Her face is pale, eyelashes coated in a film of frost, and her jaw is clenched in an effort to prevent her teeth from chattering. “Oh, fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” she growls, trying in vain to rub warmth into alarmingly crimson fingers.

_What is a chainsaw? It hardly sounds pleasant, especially for the purpose of… well._

The others are already several paces ahead, so I suppose this is my chance to establish my role as the helpful apostate. “Allow me,” I say, focusing a warming spell through my staff. “That should keep the cold at bay for the most part.” I am satisfied with the rapid return of color to the woman’s cheeks. Nearly too much color. Perhaps she is feverish.

“Hello,” she gulps, wearing an expression uncomfortably close to recognition. _That is impossible._ “I mean, thank you.” She blanches suddenly, fully processing the lowly _elf_ who has cast a spell on her. “Will this be too big a drain on your mana? I wouldn't want to exhaust you what with all the fighting. You could get hurt, or worse-”

“I will be fine,” I assure her, cutting the woman off. _That is her main concern?_ “This requires little energy to maintain.” _Though more than I would care to admit. Before the Veil I could have warmed an entire army without blinking._ “We should return to the others.”

“Probably,” she agrees, beginning to trudge through the snow. “We wouldn’t want them to figure out your sinister plot to prevent frostbite.”

A small snort escapes me. “No, indeed.”

Without the icy air to slow her down, she marches on at an invigorated pace. “I know Kaaras and I know Cassandra, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your names,” the woman addresses myself and the dwarf.

“Of course! How could it have slipped my mind?” the dwarf exclaims, dramatically clutching at his heart. “Varric Tethras, rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

“Isn't that the same introduction you gave me?” the qunari asks dryly.

“No idea what you're talking about, Reaver,” the dwarf says, conspicuously looking away.

“Reaver? Is this because of the greatsword?” The qunari raps the hilt of said weapon, bemused.

“Yep,” Varric beams, proud of his newest nickname.

“My name is Solas,” I tell the human woman, offering a small smile.

“Solas,” she hums, adding a more lyrical quality to the word than any _shemlen_ has the right to possess.

I subtly clear my throat. “Precisely. And you are?”

The woman grins, steely blue eyes glinting with mischief. “An insufferable smart-ass. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“That's an interesting name. What country are you from?” Varric continues the jest.

“Why, I am from the far off land of Nunya,” the woman makes a grand sweeping gesture skyward, as if her homeland resides in the stars.

“Nunya?” the dwarf raises his eyebrows, smirking.

“As in it's Nunya business, so shove off,” she finishes with a grin.

Varric laughs. “That's a good one. Mind if I use it sometime?” 

“It's not mine to give,” the woman waves her hands dismissively. “Name's Ross, by the way.”

 _Ross. Quick. Harsh. Inelegant. Quite fitting to be the name of a_ shemlen _._

“That's one sweet crossbow you got there,” _Ross_ eyes Varric's weapon appreciatively.

“Bianca _is_ a beauty, isn't she? Fully automated, if you can believe it, so I don't have to reload between every bolt. She comes in handy against darkspawn, nugs, and demons alike.”

“Sounds like you're lovesick,” Ross hums, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“That I am,” Varric agrees, sounding uncharacteristically wistful.

The qunari sighs at the ramshackle wooden structure ahead of us. “Oh. Ladders. Joy." I slip my staff into the strap tied across my torso in preparation for the climb.

\---

Exiting the mining complex, we are met with scouts struggling to defeat a group of corrupted spirits. The remnants of past fighting color the snow with black and red spatters. The Seeker is the first to draw her blade, charging headlong into the fray. My barrier encircles those caught in the melee.

I find my eye frequently drawn to the woman known as Ross. Her blades wildly lash out as she throws herself between opponents. I send an ice bolt at a terror demon poised to swipe at her with its claws. It screeches in frustration, instead scratching at its own blinded eyes before keeling over, having been decapitated by the mark-wielder’s greatsword.

As the last corrupted spirit falls, the horned woman raises her marked hand, connecting with the rift and pulling it shut.

“You are becoming quite proficient at this,” I commend, almost meaning it. 

She accepts the empty praise, shifting away from me to confer with the Seeker and the leader of the scouts. The conversation is short, ending with those still able to walk escorting their wounded comrades away.

We depart in the opposite direction at a swift jog down paths boarded with wooden slats. “So,” Varric begins, “holes in the Fade don't just…accidentally happen, right?”

“If enough magic is brought to bear, it _is_ possible,” I hedge, not specifying how it might be accomplished.

“But there are easier ways to make things explode,” the dwarf continues.

Smirking wryly, the qunari points out, “Like gaatlok.”

“That is true,” I agree.

“We will consider _how_ this happened once the immediate danger is past,” Cassandra announces, putting an end to that line of questioning.

In a matter of minutes, we reach an area where massive crags of rock, glowing subtly green, form a wall that towers over everything in the vicinity. “The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” I murmur.

“What's left of it,” Varric says, tone as dry as the many bones scattered nearby.

“That is where you came out of the Fade and our soldiers found you,” Cassandra points at a mound of rubble. The party grimly surveys the area. “They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Hurrying now more than ever, we pass torches still eerily lit and leap from crumbling ledges. A layer of ash coats my tongue. The air thrums with energy.

The smell of death lingers on the wind.


	4. A Spirited Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am one with the pun. The pun is with me.

Moving around a jagged wall of rock, we come into full view of the Breach, in all its wrongness.

“The Breach is a _long_ way up,” Varric drawls, quite unnecessarily.

Many feet pound into the soil behind us. The redheaded Chantry sister jogs forward. “You're here! Thank the Maker!”

“Leliana,” Cassandra turns, “have your men take up positions around the Temple.”

The Sister nods, signalling her people to move out.

“Seal this rift, and you may seal the Breach,” I supply. _It is hard to say if this will work._

A red glow up ahead attracts the attention of us all. While the Breach feels wrong in its way, this mineral feels… _twisted_ somehow. Like a song sung both backward and out of tune.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker?” Varric scowls, looking genuinely anxious.

“I see it, Varric.”

“But what's it _doing_ here?” the dwarf growls, grip tightening on his beloved crossbow.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the Temple, corrupted it,” I keep my tone purely speculative. _This was not what I intended._

_When does anything ever happen as I intend it to?_

“It's evil,” Varric turns away, back stiff. “Whatever you do, don't touch it.”

“Keep the sacrifices still,” a voice booms, dragging all of our attention to the Breach.

“Someone, help me!” The woman who pleads has an Orlesian accent.

“That is Divine Justinia's voice!” Cassandra cries, looking to the qunari for answers. She has none.

Ross’s jaw clenches. Her eyes narrow, nostrils flare, nimble fingers slip blades out of sheaths. _Animalistic. Truly._

We race down a flight of stone steps. The qunari is ahead of the rest, and the first to drop to the dark gravel below.

“Someone, help me!” the echo repeats.

It is Ross who answers, voice rebounding off the crags of rock.  “Don't worry, ma'am, any moment now-” her consolations morph into muffled shrieking.

“What's going on here?” It is the qunari's voice, just as gravelly as the earth we now stand on. The rift and the mark crackle in unison, humming with power.

“Those were _your_ voices. Most Holy called out to you, but-” the Breach rumbles, erupting with bright white light.

The silhouette I recognize as Corypheus and the ghostly form of Divine Justinia inhabit the space above us. She is restrained by magical means, floating several paces above the ground. “What's going on here?” the qunari barges into the room, outraged.

Ross kneels, face contorted in agony. Her cheeks are red, swollen, and tracked with tears. Magical bonds tighten around her torso, lashing her in place. Electricity crackles over her skin. A modified barrier over her mouth prevents her screams from being heard.

“Run while you can!” the Divine cries. “Warn them!”

“Another intruder,” Corypheus’ voice is cold, calculating. “This one is not useful to me. Kill the qunari. Now!” With another flash, the vision is gone.

“You were there!” The Seeker rounds on Ross and Kaaras, though not in anger. _The Seeker of Truth seeks the truth._ “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I don't remember!” Kaaras throws up her arms, frustrated.

“What do you know?” Cassandra’s tone turns pleading, but Ross is not looking at her. Instead, she experimentally touches a place on her tunic. Wincing, she sharply retracts her hand.

“I have no idea how I came to be there, Cassandra, but I think we can safely assume that what we just saw was true,” Ross gingerly pulls the hem of her tunic away from her belly, revealing swollen red welts spanning across her skin.

Varric whistles sympathetically, “Shit.”

“I am sorry,” Cassandra grimaces. “I did not know.”

“I guess I'd just thought it was expected to be in this much pain after the Conclave and being physically in the Fade. It never really occurred to me that...well.” With a deep breath, she replaces the fabric of her tunic, hiding the burns from view.

Baring her teeth at the Breach, the qunari rolls her shoulders back. “We'll fix this. I plan on it.”

_It is heartening to see such determination. This will be all the easier._ I think, burrowing the tip of my staff into the dirt. “The Fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not yet sealed, but it _is_ closed… albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons. Stand ready!” The Seeker orders, settling into a more defensive position. Sighing, Ross whirls, sprinting to a safe distance. _Very_ safe. _What does she believe we will have to face?_ Uneasy, I grip my staff more tightly.

“Go, Kaaras!” The human woman shrieks, nocking an arrow. The qunari smirks, forming the link between mark and rift. Energy sparks and pulsates along the bridge. The rift rips open.

For a moment, I catch a glimpse of the pure Fade, but that is overshadowed by the massive grey horned form that materializes before us. Its lips curl back, revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. In each hand it drags a lightning whip. When it hits the ground, its chuckle is low and bone-chilling. _Pride._ It is ancient. This is no spirit of Wisdom turned by the Breach; this has been corrupted for many years. The knowledge brings some small modicum of comfort.

Before it is even fully upright, the shaft of an arrow protrudes from one of its eyes. I do not have to look to know it came from Ross’s bow. “Archers, attack! Warriors, pull aggro!” _Aggro?_ “Keep its attention on you! Get it away from the rift!”

For a moment, nothing happens. Pride screeches, drawing back a whip to strike the _shemlen_ , who looks so very small in comparison. I focus through my staff, prepared to cast a barrier over her. “Now!” Cassandra commands, raising her blade. Arrows fly at the creature, but it simply swats them out of the way, as one might a swarm of gnats.

Several men rush Pride, roaring battle-cries. “Not you, Kaaras,” Ross shouts over the clash of steel. “Disrupt the rift first!”

“Aargh!” The qunari sinks her blade into the earth, raising her marked hand and connecting with the rift. When she lets go, Pride shrieks, pained, and crashes to one knee. _How could she have anticipated that?_

“Have at it!” Ross flashes a quick grin over a shoulder, already sprinting toward the prone form of the creature.

“Yes!” Kaaras whoops, running with her blade held high over her horned head. Ross reaches it first, leaping on top of an arm and using her momentum to swing up to its head. In rapid succession, she sinks her daggers beneath armored plates into its skull. Kaaras uses her greatsword to cleave at its limbs, hacking halfway through a leg before the thing rises to its feet once more.

I cast a barrier over as many fighters as possible. Twirling my staff, I send bolts of fire and ice, turning the ground beneath it into elemental chaos. Around Pride, the air crackles. Electricity hums overhead, giving the air a metallic tang. “Retreat!” Ross warns those still fighting, clinging onto a massive horn for her life. Pride lashes out mercilessly with its whip. Those that cannot move away in time are thrown back, armor smoldering. “Kaaras, get back to the rift! You have to keep disrupting it for this to work… Kaaras!”

The qunari lays face-first in the dirt at Pride’s feet, mark sputtering feebly on her hand. She had heard the woman's warning too late, and had sustained the worst damage of anyone caught in Pride's strike. “Solas, Varric, Leliana, archers, draw the demon away from the mark-wielder! Cassandra, warriors, keep the bastard occupied!”

Between casting flashy barrages of flame to draw Pride away, I spot Ross kneeling over Kaaras, shaking her shoulders. _What is she doing_? I am soon swept away into the rhythm of battle, only occasionally able to spare glances at her. Barrier, fireball, barrier, Ross pours an elfroot potion down the qunari's throat, ice bolt, barrier, inferno, until finally Ross helps Kaaras to her feet. She wastes no time before disrupting the rift once more.

“She’s something, huh?” Varric shouts to be heard over the din. “I thought Reaver was a goner for sure, and then we'd all be dead.”

The battle drags on.

Potions are rapidly depleted. Soldiers fall. Ross attempts to save as many as she can. I do not know how often she succeeds. “Fenedhis lasa!,” I curse, fade stepping away from a shade whose claws had come too close for comfort. I find myself near Ross. Her shirt is bloodied, a large bruise beginning to swell across her cheek, yet she still grins at me. “You good, bud?”

“Bud?” I smirk, sending a bolt of ice at a shade behind her.

“Yep!” She fires an arrow past my head.

“I am well, thank you,” Grunting, I slam my staff down to summon a barrier around the mark-wielder.

“See, it's the strangest thing, but I've been noticing some freak weather lately. The sky's gone green, and the lightning around here is _insane._ ” She ducks, plunging a dagger into the lower region of a wraith.

“Strange,” my lips find themselves tugging upward, “I have not noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Yeah well-” her clear blue eyes round in horror, latched onto something behind me. Before I can react, she has lunged forward, slamming me into the dirt as lightning skims past where our heads would have been. “Barrier,” she hisses. I do as she asks, certainly not distracted by her panting breath, warm against my neck.  _It has been a long while since anyone was this close._

She rolls to her feet in one smooth movement, focus completely on Pride. I follow suit, sliding neatly away from her.  The corrupt spirit is nearing its end. Leliana leads her archers in shooting volley after volley of arrows. Cassandra commands strikes and strategic retreats against it. Finally, Kaaras thrusts her greatsword clean through its neck with a mighty shout. A hoarse cheer goes up amongst the soldiers. _They only see another monster felled._

The qunari staggers toward the rift, forging the tether between the mark and the opening in the Fade. She gives all of her remaining power to this one act, pulling and pulling until the rift sews shut completely.

Deed done, the mark-wielder promptly slumps to the ground, unconscious.

I look up, feeling a nauseating twist in my stomach. The Breach is still there, though it is stabilized. I will need to either stay or run and the decision must be made soon. If I stay, I am more likely to regain control of the orb. However, I will also be under more scrutiny than I would care to face. If I run, I have few agents, but I would have the freedom to move as freely as this chaotic land will allow.

“Hey, Solas?” The _shemlen_ waves to get my attention.

“Yes?” I raise a brow, irritated at having my thoughts interrupted.

She tilts her head, smiling reassuringly. “You know, we'll definitely seal the Breach. Just stick around. You'll see.”

“What makes you believe that?” I question, skeptical.

“Solas,” she begins, “there's one thing you should realize. People as a whole can be petty, stupid, and power-hungry, but when you give them a cause to unite under, they'll change the world.”  

I exhale softly. “Is that change _necessarily_ for the better?”

The woman takes some care in answering. “In this case, I fervently believe so. The Breach is big, yeah, but I've a feeling that it's going to lead to something _much_ bigger.”

"This does nothing to assuage my worry.”

“Just watch, _mi huevo triste._ It will not be quite as bad as you expect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written almost exclusively between the hours of six and eleven pm, most of which were spent outside a Starbucks taking advantage of their WiFi. It was a dark time.
> 
> Mi huevo triste: my sad egg


	5. Just Because the Herald's Passed Out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Fixed some pretty blatant typos.

I take a moment to be alone, slumping in the ashes of the ruined temple in order to stop the shaking in my legs. I don’t cry, just sit and think for a little while and take deep breaths. _One, I just fought a fucking Pride demon._ _Two, however improvised it may have been, I was a brief part of the magister’s plan. That may have to be addressed at some point depending on the length of this dream._

_Look on the bright side: at least no one can say you were on Corypheus’ side, right?_

I get up, dust myself off, and move to help the other soldiers. Getting Kaaras and the otherwise incapacitated people down the mountain is a big ol' barrel of fun, especially considering my body is beaten beyond belief and my mind is still swirling with the notion that I was _literally going to be sacrificed by Corypheus. Why is no one else concerned about this?_

I suggest lashing spare tent canvas to wooden beams in order to fashion stretchers. While exhausting, we can at least use the makeshift stretchers to transport even more injured down to Haven. The village has a good twenty five more buildings than featured in-game. I wonder if it gained popularity when Brother Genitivi spread the word about the Sacred Ashes. After all, the Hero of Ferelden would've killed all the cult members in the village when they came through.  _Or maybe those were just my Heroes._

There are tents and coverings set up outside the gate. I believe it's meant to be a temporary infirmary until we can get everyone properly situated. Adan is shouting commands left and right. I suppose that means Kaaras is fine. Scouts, soldiers, and civilians wishing to help are building firepits, clearing away snow, searching for elfroot, and laying out bedrolls.

_If they're helping, I can, too._

There are approximately fifty wounded deemed able to survive the trip down the mountain. Those that are suffering mostly from the cold are wrapped with furs and moved into homes with large hearths. Flissa enlists several women in brewing large cauldrons of broth to hand out and I ask if she can spare any honey for me.

“Honey?” The barkeep furrows her brow, baffled. “What do ya need tha’ for?”

“Please. It'll help with healing.” _It’s basically at home Neosporin, but I don't know how to explain antimicrobial properties to people without sounding like an asylum escapee._

I order all dirty bandages, rags, and tools to be boiled and dried before they even touch an injury. A woman brings me a basket of plain soaps and I thank her profusely.

“Why boil 'em? It's not like we're eatin’ ‘em!” A large man guffaws, poised to wrap a filthy scrap of fabric around a soldier's bloodied leg and call it a day. It's a nasty injury: a jagged gash raking deeply from upper thigh to just above her knee cap. There's a rotten odor to it, one that makes me want to gag.

“That's an open wound,” I puff up indignantly, snatching the cloth from his hand. “I know it's cold out, but foreign matter could still infect it!”

“She's dyin’! We don' have time for blabberin’!”

Glaring at the larger man, the soldier insists, “It barely hurts! The demon nicked me is all.” Her claim might be believed were it not for her white-knuckled fists and forced breathing.

“The only way she's dying is if you use that on her leg or she bleeds out from this pointless arguing,” I grit out, mentally banging my head against a wall. _They won't understand even basic medical terminology._ “Have you ever seen an injury that seemed like it was rotting, oozing, or the skin around it turned red and swollen? That's infection. If it's serious, it could require surgery.”

“Am I going to lose the leg, miss?” The soldier's eyes glaze over at the realization, breaths growing even more rapid. “No. No, I can't.”

“You're not going to lose the leg,” I say sternly.

 _Fuck, I hope this works._ “You, man, use that to apply pressure right here. Make sure it's tight,” I direct, guiding him in tying off the leg so as not to completely prevent circulation. “I think the demon grazed the femoral vein, so it's not as urgent as arterial, but it's still an emergency.” _They must've given her an elfroot potion to form a clot here and something recently reopened it. Otherwise, she would've bled out coming down the mountain._ “What's your name?” I ask, making sure that the leg is elevated before flitting about in search of clean bandages.

“Ralph,” the big man grunts, keeping a firm grip on the bloody leg in front of him.

“Not who I meant,” I roll my eyes, digging through a nearby crate. “The one with the gaping leg wound.”

Chuckling weakly, the raven-haired woman replies, “Erica.”

I raise an eyebrow at her from across the tent. “You don't look too good. When was the last time you slept?”

The soldier grimaces, “I slept the night the Breach appeared in the sky.”

“Erica,” I hum. “That was three days ago. After this is over, I'm ordering you to get at least eight hours of rest. I don't give a flying fuck what Cullen may want from you.”

 _“_ Yes, ser,” she huffs, nearly smiling.

_Jackpot! Clean cotton!_

“You're going to be fine. Ralph there is doing a wonderful job,” I reassure her, watching the same man scratch his ass. _Right, he's not going anywhere near an open injury._ Darting elsewhere in the camp, I snatch up three cakes of soap, two elfroot potions, a rag, and a tin of boiled water. Using these materials, I attempt to purge the injury of dried blood, dirt, cloth fibers, and demonic residue. “I'm going to need you to drink this, Erica.” She takes the potion with shaking hands, quickly gulping it down.

“Ralph, slowly untie that.” He does so, and I watch the blood flow return to normalcy before solidifying in a potion-induced clot.

Already, the gash looks a little better.

“You asked for…honey?” A stocky blonde woman holds out a jar and ladle to me.

Relieved, I snatch the container from her grasp. “Thank you!” Removing the lid, I spoon a little  honey onto the cotton and begin to wrap it around the gash.

Ralph watches on in disbelief. “You wouldn't let me use somethin’ with a bit o’ dirt on it, but now you're smearin’ honey all o’er her leg like it's a smoked ham?”

“What _are_ you doing?” Erica cocks her head inquisitively. Her black hair is a sweaty tangled mess, bags underneath dark eyes, but overall she seems less pained.

“Honey acts as a barrier for things that can cause infection while keeping the injured area moist,” I explain, calmer now. “Stay off that leg for a little while so you don't reopen the wound. I think you're pretty much set to be moved into the village.”

“Thank you, ser,” Erica settles back on her bedroll with a sigh.

“Don't thank me yet,” I say, completely serious. “Wait until you’ve made a full recovery, please.”

“Right you are,” Ralph grunts, waving a stretcher over. He and another soldier help lift Erica onto it.

From then on, it's mostly a blur. I move from person to person, helping where I can. Most of it is relatively simple, though there are joints that need relocating and bones that need resetting and splinting. I can't really help with that, though I do watch carefully. Turns out, some of the more battle-worn veterans have had experience with things of that nature, and are willing to assist.

Solas comes down from his hut as well, warming both us, our patients, and providing other helpful services, modestly waving away the few thanks he receives. _Damn, he really is working that whole ‘harmless’ charade._

By the time the sun begins to set, everyone has more or less been attended to. I'm sure I'm on the blacklist of a couple of Chantry sisters thanks to my nitpicking. Seriously, if the best that can be managed is to scrub their hands down with clean snow, then do that, but don't work with hands still stained with someone else's blood for crying out loud. And when I caught the first healer using leeches on someone whose main symptoms were _aching limbs and_ _coughing up a bit of phlegm?_ Oh, I ripped him a new one. _He has a cold for fuck’s sake! At worst asthma or bronchitis! It's not even a circulatory problem!_

I make my way through the gates of the village for the first time this evening, determined to check on Kaaras before I find a place to sleep. Solas accompanies me, as his work is also done for now. I feel pretty good. Drained, but good. It's nice being useful.

The door of a cottage next to a barren merchant's stall flies open, revealing a red-faced elven woman gripping the threshold in disarray. “Someone! He's stopped breathing!” Those few that are nearby just stand there, not knowing what to do.

“Where?” I turn the question into a command, racing into the small house without a second thought. The woman points to a long-haired elf, half dressed, wrapped in a thin blanket close to the fireplace. _Way_ too close. _Gotta be carbon monoxide poisoning or smoke inhalation. He needs oxygen._ ”Solas, help me get him outside!” Together, we lift him by the shoulders and legs and carry him to just outside the cottage entrance.

He most certainly is not breathing. I follow procedure, shaking his shoulders, calling out to him, and quickly checking his airways before making the decision to do CPR. The elf’s chest is bare, so I can easily locate his sternum. “This is gonna hurt, buddy, but not as much as being dead will.” I interlock my fingers, breathing deeply before beginning chest compressions _._

“Is there hope?” The woman whispers, quiet vulnerability lacing her words.

I clench my jaw, fixated on pressing as hard as I can against the chest beneath me. A rib or two gives way during the process. Not broken per se, but dislocated. He'll have to have them popped back in place. “There is a small chance,” I grunt between compressions, “but it can take up to thirty five minutes to resuscitate someone. Hopefully this won't be that long.”

They are silent while I work, tense in their stillness. Ten minutes drag on. My arms are lead weights and my wrists feel like they're about to snap off. I'm just about to ask Solas or the elven woman if they think they can take over when the unconscious man sucks in a sputtering breath of air. I move to the side, supporting his back so he can cough properly. A few quiet cheers surprise me. Apparently those that could not assist had stayed to watch the show. 

“Ungghh,” he groans, face contorting in pain. For good reason, really.

The elven woman drops to her knees, crying, “Enril!” When she reaches out for him, I seize her arm.

“He has a few dislocated ribs,” I explain wearily, “but I don't know how to reset them.” _Why does she look familiar? Is she… yep, she's definitely that elven NPC that attends to the “Herald” in the beginning of the game._

“I believe I may be of some assistance,” Solas supplies, kneeling beside Enril. He skims his fingers over the prone elf, conjuring tendrils of magic. I only realize that he's actually done something when Enril relaxes, a small sigh leaving his lips. _That wasn't as painful looking as I expected._

“Hello... sister,” he rasps, shivering. “Is there a reason I'm... outside in the... freezing cold?”

“Bastard,” the poor woman giggles disbelievingly, enveloping him in a gentle embrace.

“Get him warm,” I say, rising to my feet. “But don't ever sleep that close to a fire again. In fact, I'd check the flue. Make sure it's letting the smoke out of the house properly, alright?”

“Is that what you think caused it?” The woman's head swivels to glare suspiciously at the fireplace.

Furrowing his heavy brow, Enril struggles to string words together. “Caused what? Reya... what're you... talking about?”

“Enril,” Reya scrubs furiously at her eyes, “you were dead. You stopped breathing. Your heart stopped beating. She saved your life.”

“What?” his eyes widen, trying to sit up.

“Don't strain yourself too much, Enril. Get some rest. And Reya, good work.”

“I did nothing,” Reya waves her hands, startled.

I smile as warmly as I'm able to in this awful _awful_ cold. “Not just anyone would have reacted as quickly as you did.”

“Oh,” she flushes.

“Shall we take him inside?” Solas raises a brow at me.

“Sure thing,” I nod, gathering Enril’s legs in my arms. Together, we carry the long-haired elf into the cottage and set him down on a pallet prepared by Reya. “Prop him up and check his breathing throughout the night.”

Reya clasps her hands together, bowing her head. “Thank you so much for your kindness. How can I repay you? I don't have much, but-”

I wave her away, my cheeks burning. “I don't need anything. Anyone would've done the same if they were able.”

“If there's something I can do for either of you, you have only to ask,” Reya tells me, firm despite my protests. _And here I thought she'd be as much of a pushover as she was in that opening sequence._

Thankfully, it is Solas who answers her, casting a curious look at me. “That is very kind of you. However, I am afraid that we must be going. The hour grows late.”

Reya nods, returning her attentions to her drowsy brother. “Of course! Maker be with you both!”

“You as well,” I return, relieved to make my escape. “If you need me, I'll be in…” _I had planned to squat in Master Taigen’s hut for the night, but I don't want to make her trek out that far if she does actually need me._ “...the home of the mark-wielder.”

“The mark-wielder?” she looks up just as Solas and I slip out the door. My stomach chooses this moment to perform a convincing whale impersonation. _Oh yeah. Food._

Turning to Solas, I pat my belly, “Have you eaten at all today? Because I could go for a small horse army.”

He chuckles softly. “I had cold porridge this morning.”

“Right,” I nod, decided, “That settles it, we're hunting down something that is both hot and filling. Onward!” My pace quickens, motivated by the possibility of a meal. Solas keeps up with me easily.

“Where did you learn that technique?” The bald apostate asks in such a nonchalant way I know  he's genuinely curious. “I have never seen such a thing in all my travels.”

I cock an eyebrow, “Where are you from?” My arms hurt like hell, but I'm floating high on adrenaline. _I just saved someone's life; I can afford to be a little cocky._

Solas looks sharply away, “A small village to the north. I doubt that you would know it.”

My lips curve into a smirk. “Right. And where did you learn to reset ribs? Or to fight so skillfully?”  The brief flash of alarm on his face forces me to stifle a laugh. “Those are skills I'd expect more from a soldier than an apostate on the run.”  

Maybe that was too mean, because never before have I seen an expression become guarded so quickly. “I believe I asked you first.”

_What's the harm, really?_

_So much. So much harm._

_I can do what I want. You don't control me._

With a grin, I fold my arms behind my head, kicking a lump of snow in the path. “It's called cardiopulmonary resuscitation, or CPR, and it's commonly taught where I come from, though to differing extents. It only works a quarter of the time, and it's almost guaranteed to break a few bones. Enril was _extremely_ fortunate. _"  Perhaps elven bones have different properties?_

Solas thoughtfully takes this in. “From where do you hail, that such a skill is so commonplace?”

I tap my temple knowingly. “Nunya business, remember?” He opens his mouth to object to such an unsatisfying answer, but I shake my head. We've arrived at the tavern.The Singing Maiden is a hub of activity this night, second only to the Chantry. Drunken ballads and warm candlelight spill out the windows in equal measure. I pull on the hefty oak door, moaning when a wall of warmth envelops me.

The place is filled to the brim with soldiers, scouts, citizens, and even the odd Chantry member swapping stories and partaking of Flissa's ram stew, cheesy potato mash, and brown ale. The barkeep seems anything but frazzled, however, despite the chaos. At the center of it all sits none other than Varric Tethras.

“And there I was, ass-deep in demons-”

“Well that's not very high at all, is it? More like knee-height for us!” A soldier out of his armor but very much into his cups points out.

Varric raises his voice over him. “When all of a sudden the Seeker shows up with this qunari woman. Tall, muscular, shiny black horns honed to a fine point, and her hand ablaze with green fire. It almost seemed like divine intervention.” His audience is enraptured, and even I have to admit that the candlelight adds an atmospheric quality his words.

“The Herald of Andraste!” A woman pipes up, causing a raucous cheer among the others. _Ah, so that's how it started. Figures Varric would be involved somehow._ Solas and I slide unnoticed into a pair of free seats.

“Wot can I get ya, luvs?” A tavern maid with rosy cheeks and a stained blouse looms over us. “We 'ave a bargain price tonight.”

My face burns as a thought suddenly strikes me. _Fuck_ , _I’m stupid._ “I, uh, don't have any money.”

“Well,” the woman scowls, impatient, “wot abou’ you, elf?”

“Two bowls of stew,” Solas requests, removing a stack of coppers from a coin purse tied to his belt. The woman shrugs, sweeping the money into her apron.

“Wait!” I object, but she's already vanished into the throng of bodies. “I couldn't take your money, Solas.” _I don't want to owe you any favors._

The wolf in disguise raises a calming hand, faintly amused. “It is no trouble.”

Scowling, I'm forced to relent by the hunger gnawing at my innards. “Fine, but I'm paying you back.” When our bowls of meaty broth arrive, I have to hold myself back from slurping it all down in one go. It's filling, heavily spiced, and wonderfully aromatic. We don't really speak much, nursing our bowls and observing the people around us.

Once the effects of food and warmth kick in, my body finally realizes it's not in danger anymore and I come down from my seemingly hours long adrenaline high. _Have I ever been this tired?_

Sighing, I say goodbye to Solas and head out the door into the miserable cold. Arriving at Kaaras’ cottage, I scrub myself and then my clothes down with a pot of warm water and pieces of soap. Then, I find a couple spare blankets and wrap myself up in them several feet away from the low-burning flames.

Succumbing to the beckoning call of sleep, I wonder if this dream is nearing its end.

* * *

 

Wandering through dark mist, I feel the back of my neck prickle. Something is watching me; I can tell. A vaguely familiar voice resonates through the air, as though originating from multiple places at once.

_This dream keeps getting weirder and weirder._

**How amusing. You believe this to be a conjuration of your mind? Have you not felt pain? Did your body not ache after fighting?**

_Look, buddy. I once spent an entire dream being slowly and agonizingly tortured, so anything's possible._

**This is all very real. I assure you.**

_Sure, and Dolores Umbridge donates to charity every weekend._

**When was the last time you have had a lucid dream?**

_Um…_

**Oh, yes. Never.**

_It's never too late to start, am I right?_

**Rosalind Amelia Clarke, you have been charged with the completion of two major tasks. Firstly, you must prevent the Dread Wolf from carrying out his current machinations. Secondly, eliminate the Blight. It poses a danger to all.**

_Would you like a large drink with that order, whatever your name is?_

**I am beyond your ability to fully comprehend. Call me what you will. It matters not.**

_Stanley, then. I'm afraid that, allowing for the possibility that this is indeed real, you've gotta know that I am not the right person for this job._

**What if I told you that Earth’s purpose is to train people for use in other realms? It is a central hub for song and tale. Your video games and anime and tribal legends and mythologies all come from somewhere.** **_You_ ** **are qualified to help** **_this_ ** **world with** **_these_ ** **problems.**

_How can I? How could I even begin to tackle something as ancient as the Blight, much less Solas’ monumental close-mindedness?_

**I will give you a small nudge in the right direction. Concentrate on your core. Feel the blood flow through your veins, forced onward with each pump of your heart. You are alive. Imagine following the course of electric signals from your brain along the paths of nerve fibers and back again. Now, do you feel something** **_more?_ ** **A warm energy pulsating with life.**

_Mmmmmm hmmmmmmmmm._

**It is slumbering, but you can awaken it. Focus on it. Dig deeper. Let it permeate your being.**

_Shit. This feels...good. Like, really good. What is this?_

**The people of this world call it magic. They do not fully understand what it is they do.**

_Magic? Woah, woah, woah, hang on there, buddy. Did you just turn me into a mage without my consent?_

**You already had the aptitude for it; I simply facilitated the connection to your power.**

_This is super definitely a dream. Holy shit, dude. Are you even trying to be subtle at this point?_

**Your doctor called it Chronic Motor Tic Disorder. She said that your brain was hyperactive, requiring involuntary repeated motion to focus yourself when necessary. You never grew out of it, simply adjusting how your ‘tics’ manifested themselves in order to make them less noticeable to the average passer-by. That alone required a certain degree of willpower, but there was more to it than you could have known.**

_Are you telling me that my tics are a symptom of not being able to use magic?_

**A simplified explanation, but the underlying principle is correct.**

_I asked_ who _you are, Stanley, but now I'm dying to know_ what _you are. I have so many questions. What kind of mage am I? Spirit? Healing? Rift? No wait, I'm a Necromancer, aren't I?_

**Until we meet again, Rosalind.**

_What? You can’t just leave!_

**Oh, but I can.**

* * *

 

When I open my eyes, it is with utmost calm. Fiery sparks and motes of dust swirl through the air in an enchanting ballet, never before appreciated to this degree. I feel replenished. My mind is crisp, clean, as though it has been recently cleared of cobwebs and vigorously polished. A pleasant golden glow emanates from my skin.

That's about when I realize my tunic is on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers. I'm currently living life pretending that I'm emotionally prepared for my professional obligations and haven't been drowning my sorrows in Night Vale and fanfiction.


	6. Out of the Breach Pot, Into the Magic Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I adore when an MGiT is just a regular person, being a mage just opens up so many more plot points. The most important being able to walk in and later remember the Fade. That's super important for a Solasmance, I think.

“Fuck me!” I yelp, nearly moving to rip the flaming tunic over my head before remembering that my hair would then also be on fire. Kicking the nearby blankets away, I roll back and forth across the unyielding stone floor until the flames sputter out. The shirt is ruined, reduced to a shriveled scrap of scorched cloth clinging to my shoulders. Somehow, my still glowing flesh has escaped harm. I skim fingers over my belly, experimentally squishing unblemished skin. _Interesting. Those burns, they’re gone._

Something else of note, I’m not even remotely near the fireplace, so there's no way a stray spark ignited the fabric. That would be a whole new level of dumbassery considering what happened to Enril only hours before. _Could this be magic? And why am I still in Haven? This dream is taking sooooooo fucking long._

_Time to wake up and smell the coffee, babe. This may very well be real._

_But that’s impossible. It’s a game. None of this can be true._

_Stanley did have some good points. You've never had a lucid dream, nor one this chronologically linear. You feel the cold in your bones, see the grain in the wooden wall slats, and your breath smells like a small animal curled up and died. It could prove detrimental to treat this situation as anything but dangerous. Your stupidity could get you killed. For example, telling the fucking Dread Wolf that CPR, a technique unheard of in Thedas, is supposedly commonplace where you come from. You think he won’t fucking try to track down your origins?_

_Okay, I get it. I goofed. I did a bad. What do you want me to do about it? What’s done is done._

_Right. No revealing shit about being from Earth and knowing the future unless you absolutely have to. And I mean abso-fucking-lutely. Got it?_

_Yeah. Sure._

Grunting, I rip off the remains of the tunic and lay back on the cool stone. I’ll need to get a new shirt, eventually. I can't just walk around in pants and a chest wrap. Besides, people might ask questions about my tattoos. From my shoulder to my wrist on my right arm, there's a black and purple night sky inked to look like watercolor that bleeds into a dark forested landscape. Sketch-style illustrations of some of my all-time favorite characters adorn the other.

It’s not long before my thoughts are drawn back to the idea of magic fire. Wiggling my fingers, I concentrate on the feeling of warmth within me, trying to channel it through my body. A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead. My brow is intensely furrowed, completely focused on my right hand. Suddenly, it erupts in bright flames that lick ravenously up my forearm. “Fuck!” I squeal, lunging backward. The flames vanish in an instant. _That's great, because how the fuck did you expect to get away from your own arm?_

 _Shut it. The more important question is how I go about controlling it. Magic's supposed to be, like, connecting to the Fade in order to make the real world more malleable, right?_ It takes another fifteen minutes of concentration to conjure another, much smaller flame.

 _“_ Woah,” I breathe, bringing my hand close to my face. I can feel a modicum of heat radiating from it. The movement of the tiny fire seems normal, as well as the radius of its glow. Somewhat dazed _,_ I watch as both flame and golden aura gently eke away. _My dreams aren't this detailed, you're right. But what if I'm high? Maybe someone slipped me something? If my hallucinations induced by exhaustion are vivid as fuck, drugs must make them insanely realistic._

_It's a possibility, I suppose. But when would you have taken anything? You came straight home from work, did about half an hour of yoga, then locked yourself up in your room to study for the rest of the night._

_What if that's also a part of some high dream, though?_

_When was the last time you've been to a party?_

_A...really long time._

_Exactly. Look, all I'm saying is that we may as well not be complete idiots while we're here._

I wrap a blanket around my shoulders like a shawl just as the door creaks open and a slender woman carrying a wicker basket slips inside. It's Reya. “Hello, miss,” she smiles, though it's the brittle kind. Her movements are cautious, so as not to risk waking Kaaras.

Sitting up, I purse my lips, “Is there anything I can help you with? That basket looks heavy.”

“Oh no, miss,” she shakes her head, easing said basket to the floor. “I've just come to change her clothes. Isn't right for the Herald of Andraste to wear wool’s been patched again 'n again.”

Watching her tentatively pull a thick quilt off of the snoring qunari, I stand, making my voice as soft as possible, “How’s Enril?”

She tenses, whispering, “he is doing well, miss.” Her spine is arched, and I can tell that she’s trembling.

“Are you alright?” I instinctively reach for her shoulder, but stop halfway. _Is she comfortable being touched?_

Reya curls inwardly on herself, staggering away from Kaaras’ bed. “‘m fine. It's jus’, well, he was dead, miss. If you hadn' been there…” she hiccups, sounding suspiciously close to crying. _Shit._  “I would ne’er get to hear 'im laugh again. He ‘as such a lovely laugh.” When I catch a glimpse of tears streaming down her face, I hesitantly gather her into my arms, giving her room to pull away, and pat her back in a manner I hope isn't as awkward as it feels.

She breaks down full-on sobbing then, sagging against me. _Fuck what do I do? Fuck fuck fuck fuck, um, I guess this is fine for right now?_ My grip tightens around her. We stand like that for a little while, myself crooning what I think are soothing words and she heaving great shuddering gasps onto my blanketed shoulder. After a while, I ask her to sit down and allow me to make her a pot of tea.

“I couldn't, miss,” her watery eyes widen. She pushes away from me, tripping over herself to return to her task.

“Sit down, Reya,” I say, infusing my words with command. “This will help you calm down.” Still sniffling, she acquiesces, sliding into a chair. “Thank you,” I turn, focusing now on tea.

I'm placing the lid on the kettle, having already stoked the fire, when I hear Reya’s quiet tones. “Do you know much about the Herald?”

I stiffen ever so slightly. “A little, why?”

She clears her throat. “Oh, er, it’s just, I wanted to know. Is she all, you know, horns and anger and the Qun?” Horrified at her own bluntness, she claps a hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that she, well…”

I slide a glance at the qunari, smirking at her parted lips. She's so blissfully unaware of both her surroundings and what's in store for her. “I would say she is not as frightening as you might think. Anyway, while she’s of the qunari race, she's Vashoth. She does not follow the Qun. Not that that should necessarily be cause for alarm anyway.”

“Oh,” Reya nods, slightly relieved.

An hour of muted conversation and weak tea pass us by. I help her wash Kaaras’ body and then clothe her in those strange Quizzyjamas. _So many buttons._ The topic of my missing shirt comes up and she races out of the cottage. When she returns, she pushes a red woolen tunic into my hands, saying it's one of Enril’s spares. She didn't think anything of hers would fit me. I accept the garment gladly. We speak some more about various trivial matters, but then it is time for her to leave.

As she departs, she remembers something.  “Miss, once the Herald awakens, Lady Cassandra wants to see her. The both of you, actually. I thought I would let you know if I canna tell her myself.”

“Thank you,” I dip my head. "Oh! Is there a way I can, um, clean my teeth? My breath smells godawful and I was just wondering if you knew of anything..."

A faint smile touches her lips. "I'm sure I'll be able to hunt something down."

"Thank you."

"Not at all," she sketches a quick curtsey before bounding off into the village as quickly as her legs can carry her. Sparing another look at the resting qunari, I step outside and lock the door between us. While for now I go to check up on those recently injured, I make a mental note to drop by Solas’ later.

I have some questions for Haven’s resident wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So due to a literal hurricane flooding all the nearby roads, I have some unexpected free time. Thanks, Harvey.


	7. Liar Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, maybe Bitte and Enfoiré are both French curse words I looked up on Google translate. I have the maturity level of a child.
> 
> *Noncon elements*

Every second that drags on is another that the boy, Enril, should never have known. Bringing someone back from the dead should be well beyond the capabilities of mere _shemlen._ Falon’din himself would have balked at the notion. The human had not even used _magic_ to accomplish what she did _._

Perhaps looking into her background might turn up something worthwhile. She had said something along the lines of “me weboh treestay”. It was certainly foreign. Antivan, or perhaps Rivaini? Her accent has a strange quality to it, resembling one from the Free Marches more than any. She is, admittedly, puzzling.

The sound of raised voices distracts me from both my thoughts and the grossly inaccurate _No Spirit is Harmless_ by _Bitte Enfoiré_. Ordinarily, I would not care enough about an argument between villagers to investigate, but I cannot say I would be particularly disappointed to leave the book's musty pages for a short time. The text is, I am fairly certain, almost singlehandedly responsible for the pounding headache blooming behind my temples. Opening my door a crack, I poke my head into the frigid air in search of those causing the commotion. It takes a little work, as they're out of the way of the main path, but I do spot them.

Most of the villagers outside give no notice to the three people, they themselves likely going to the tavern or having recently left it. A potbellied man with dark stubble and rotten teeth, obviously drunk, towers menacingly over a pair of women, at least one of whom is elven. The second woman stands between the man and the elven girl, back towards me with arms thrown out in protective fashion. I have enough wherewithal to realize that I should not interfere with this. Drawing undue attention to myself at this point in time, where things remain so uncertain, could prove detrimental.

The man steps closer to the human woman, wrapping a meaty hand around her upper arm.“Get outta the way, girlie! This ain't your concern!”

Without hesitation, she viciously bends his fingers backward and to the side, making him yelp. “Once you groped that girl without her permission, it became my concern.” _That voice. It is… yes, that_ _woman again. Ross._ I had not recognized her with clean hair and a lively red tunic. There is something else, a glow around her, a pleasantly warm amber. _An aura? But I had sensed nothing of the sort. Has she been concealing her magic this whole time?_

“Feisty little bitch!” The man spits, rubbing his knuckles. “If you don't move outta my way, I'll move you myself. Me and the knife-ear there was, er, havin’ a moment.”

The timid elf grips Ross’ tunic, trying in vain to drag her away. “It's alright, miss. It wasn't nothin’ too bad. Nothin’ worth a beatin’ over, anyhow.”

“There, ya see?” The man staggers forward, reaching hungrily for the elven woman. “There's no’ a problem 'ere.”

The human stiffens. “Did you _want_ him to touch you? If you did, I’ll leave you to it and you have my sincere apologies.”

“Well,” the girl stutters, “no, but-”

“Then that's all that matters” she rolls her shoulders back, returning her attention to the oafish drunkard. “It seems to me, _messere,_ that the lady here wishes to leave in peace. If you'd be so kind as to allow her to, we might all depart without any trouble and wake up safe and sound in our _separate_ beds tomorrow.”

The man leans in close to Ross, making her recoil. _“_ Aw, don' be like that. You can join in, too, sweetheart. Migh’ be fun.” Seeming to warm up to the idea, he draws himself further in, settling a hairy hand against the small of her back. _That is it._ I slip fully out the door. _Perhaps a simple sleeping spell, though the matter of transporting his body should be duly considered-_

 _“_ You asked for it,” Ross first kicks a leg out from under him before proceeding to grab a fistful of the man's trousers, whooping when the stained lump of fabric catches flame. Her aura ignites just as brightly, blazing with flickering light. _Fenedhis lasa_. The man howls, throwing himself into a pile of snow in a rush to extinguish the small blaze. Ross grapples for the startled elven girl's hand, catapulting her forward with a shout. “Run!” The elf, requiring no further encouragement, takes off like an arrow loosed from a bowstring.

By now the man has somewhat recovered, having gotten mostly to his feet. “Why you little-” he takes a swipe at Ross who then easily dodges the blow. Reaching instinctively for the hilt of a dagger and finding nothing, her expression transforms from smug intensity to horrified shock a second before the man snags her by the collar and bashes her head into the rim of a barrel. She crumples to the ground with a heavy thump, aura now so dim I strain to see it. Pleased with himself, the man reaches for the woman’s prone form, almost certainly with dishonorable intentions.

That will not do. _Anyone who would stand up for the meek does not deserve that_ . Focusing more intensely than I would need to if I had a staff on hand, I make sure he collapses in the snow. It should take some time for a passer-by to do anything about his body. There are too many _shemlen_ who regularly commit such acts without consequence. This need not be such an occasion.

It is obvious that no one else in this forsaken village will assist the human woman, so I carry her to Adan’s cottage. Her eyes open and shut a few times as she battles to stay conscious. The apothecary grumbles at first, but swiftly recognizes the freckled skin and flaxen hair. A swollen red welt surrounded by bruising speaks for itself. “Isn’t this the girl that fell out of the Fade? Organized a lot of the healing yesterday? What happened?”

I sigh, “A drunkard slammed her head against a barrel. She is incapacitated.”

“Really? Had no idea.” He raises a pair of bushy eyebrows, “and what were you doing when this was taking place? Picking daisies?”

Batting aside the faint accusation, I explain, _“_ I had come out to investigate their raised voices. The man who did this has mysteriously found himself equally incapacitated.” Fingers skimming over her forehead, I do what I can to reduce the swelling.

Ross’ eyes flick open, a hazy grey-blue. Her pupils are two noticeably different sizes. “'ello Solaaahmmmm. Ah tink ah 'ave a concusssssion. Mmminor ‘opefully.”

“Concussion?” I repeat. She whimpers, twisting away as though I've shouted directly into her ear. I feel a twinge of sympathy.

“Brain bruise,” she whispers in a voice so low even I strain to hear it. Her eyelids slide shut once more. “Is better ta jus’ lemme sleep.”

Adan grunts, moving to rifle through his alchemical stores. “I have smelling salts _somewhere_ around here. Ah, there we are,” he snatches a small jar from amongst powdered embrium petals and dried felandaris stalks.

Objecting on the woman's behalf, I point out, “She said it would be more beneficial to allow her rest.”

Adan rubs his temples tiredly. “She's had a rough knock on the head, apostate. I need her conscious enough to take an elfroot potion and maybe something else to dull the pain. She can sleep after.” He positions the salts underneath her nose, waiting until Ross jolts awake to pull them away. She grits her teeth, clutching at her head. “Drink these. Don't complain,” the apothecary orders, brooking no argument.

Ross tips the pair of potions back, offering a pained grimace before easing herself back down. Staring blankly at the roof, her eyelids droop further and further and her breathing evens out. The aura hovering around her skin is an ember glowing faintly amidst the suffocating darkness of this dead world.

“Didn't even have to brew a sleeping draught. Heh,” Adan smirks, replacing supplies he had gotten out. “Now, where is she staying? She'll not be laying on my bed the whole night through.”

 _She mentioned it to Enril’s sister._ “I believe she is currently residing in the same cottage as the Herald of Andraste.”

The apothecary scoffs, giving me a look more suitably aimed at an unusually dull child. “Not tonight, she isn't. Herald’s in relatively stable condition, aside from being out cold. Girl’s more questionable. She isn't spending the night at the other end of the village. I am _not_ risking one of the only people for miles with medical knowledge.”  

 _“_ Where are you suggesting I take her, exactly?”

Adan eases her torso up, allowing me to position my hands correctly before I take on the rest of the woman's weight. “You’re only a few houses down, aren't you?”

“Very well,” I concede, sighing. The apothecary at least escorts me out, shutting the door as soon as I step into the frigid night air. By the faint light of the two moons above, I fumble one-handedly with my door latch. 

The fire has burned low, almost completely embers and ash. The copy of _No Spirit is Harmless_ rests on my writing desk, still on the same annotation-scrawled page at which I had left. Now that I am here, it occurs to me that I only have one cot, and a small one at that. Sighing again, I lay Ross down in it, drawing the blanket up around her chin. _A quickling in the bed of Fen’Harel. If the Evanuris could see me now..._

It is with utmost disdain that I retrieve the tome, having nothing better to occupy my mind, and settle into an uncomfortable wicker chair for what is sure to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harvey's finally settling down. It's been a suitably frightening experience.


	8. Boiled Eggs and Jam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Seuss allusions for Dragon Age fanfic chapter titles? How does she do it?

My head throbs, thankfully closer to an intense migraine than the skull-splitting agony of yesterday. At least I _think_ it was yesterday. _No way of being sure, really. It’s all a delirium-induced blur. All I remember is that he was that asshat guard from before._ The crackling of a fire and smell of old books envelops me like a blanket. No, wait, there’s an actual blanket. It’s warm and soft, pulled up to my chin. Cracking my eyelids open, I take far too long trying to decipher the secrets of the bowl levitating above me. _Is someone using magic? Why is it just staying there? Is there anything in it?_ Painstakingly easing myself up to a sitting position, I finally see the delicate white flowers peeking over the rim of the mystical bowl. _It’s a fucking potted plant. Fuck me. Why am I like this?_

_Wait. There aren’t any hanging potted plants in Kaaras’...oh._ Solas is face-down at a desk, carelessly having crumpled the pages of a book beneath folded arms. Overall, the stiff backed chair and awkward angle at which his neck is bent seem as though it’d make for poor sleeping conditions. This is his house. He let me sleep in his bed, and we all know how much _el huevo triste_ cherishes his Fade Time. This means I gotta do something in return. Living in the South taught me nothing if not proper manners.

When in doubt, the answer is food.

Tiptoeing around the slumbering egg, I get the door open and stagger outside, throwing an arm up to shield my eyes from the light of the sun. _Fucking hell, that burns._ Flashing spots dance behind my closed eyelids. The chill of the snow beneath my feet seeps upward through my boot soles, reminding me to not be a doofus and start walking. It’s still early in the morning, so Flissa’s shouldn’t be too busy. Betting on this assumption, I make my way to the Singing Maiden, tugging open the heavy oak door as quietly as humanly possible.

Flissa glances up from the tankard she’s wiping down, clearly irate. “Oi, we start servin’ drink at midday, get your ale somewhere el- Oh, excuse me, lass! Mistook you for a right scoundrel comes in here oftentimes. You’re the girl that wanted honey for the healer’s tent, yeah? What _was_ tha’ about?” A few of the other tavern maids stop their work to peer at me. Clearly they’d heard a few tales. “A couple o’ the soldiers been in ‘ere sayin’ you patched ‘em up decent.”

I smile faintly, massaging my temples. _She is so loud. Why._ “Helps, uh, honey helps make sure an injured person doesn’t get, er, sick. Lavender oil might’ve worked too, but honey was what came to mind.”

The tavern keeper frowns, tilting her head to the side. “You don’ look too good, though it’s none o’ my business. Maybe you shoulda’ taken some o’ that healin’ honey yourself, eh?” I can only imagine what my tousled hair, red face, and rumpled clothing must implicate to someone else.

“Ah, yeah. I hit my head pretty hard,” I chuckle nervously, doing my best to avoid looking at the blazing candles and monstrously bright fireplace. “I was wondering if you make breakfast? I need two, I’ll pay, and I'll bring the bowls back.”

“Two, eh?” she eyes me knowingly, pursing her lips at the tavern workers. They’re the only other people in the establishment anyway. “Five coppers a meal. Hot porridge with cream and a hard-boiled egg to go with it.” I fork over the ten coppers, wincing as the coins clink together.

I withdraw another three coppers, sliding them across the bar counter but not taking my hand from them. “Um, is there a way I could get one of the porridges sweetened somehow? Maybe some leftover honey or just plain sugar?”

She nods, smiling warmly as she scoops up the extra coins. “Got yourself a sweet tooth, eh lass? I can add a dollop of jam to one of ‘em for ya.”

Winking good-naturedly at a pretty redhead,  Flissa clucks her tongue. “Right, you heard the girl, Sheila. Little to do, less time to do it in!”

The serving girl shrugs, vanishing into a kitchen area. She's back with two bowls in such little time I have a hunch that this was their breakfast as well. “Thank you, ma’am. I'll be on my way now.”

“Remember, dearie,” she calls after me, “bowls back by midday rush!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I respond, already preparing for the visual onslaught that is the sun. It isn’t enough. _Holy fuck. Why does the sun exist? Screw photosynthesis. Screw cellular respiration. Screw all energy transformations. Who needs energy anyway?_ Balancing both bowls on one arm, I fiddle with the door handle to Solas’ cottage, nearly dropping the two of them when the door swings suddenly inward. The elf’s sharp eyes narrow first at me, then at the food I’m carrying. I grin sheepishly at him. “Can I come in, Solas?”

“Of course,” he shakes himself, moving swiftly out of the threshold, closing the door behind me, and snagging a glass vial full of dark liquid. I gesture for him to seat himself before passing him the bowl that’s been all jammed up. He offers me a mildly incredulous look, “What is this?”

“Gratitude porridge,” I explain, far more pleased than I really have any right to be. “It’s a thank you for letting me stay in your home. I expect it was a pain to sleep in that chair all night.”

“You are welcome,” he says, stirring the jam into his porridge and taking a tentative bite. The way his eyes widen and his lips part in surprise sends a burst of warmth through my chest. “The apothecary asked that I give you this.” He passes the glass vial to me and I swallow its contents. Almost immediately, the pain in my head grows a touch more bearable. “I had not realized you were a mage until you ceased hiding your aura.”

“Wait, what?” Sputtering, I lean forward on the straw mattress I had chosen for myself. “What aura? When did you even see me do magic?” _I’m fairly certain he wasn’t around when my own tunic accidentally caught on fire or later when my arm accidentally caught on fire. That leaves setting Prick Face’s pants on fire right before the fucker slammed my fucking head into a fucking barrel._ “Oh, I see. How long were you watching that pitiful excuse for a fight? I mean, I come out alive from a battle with a Pride demon, but get laid flat by a large wooden container? How does that make sense?”

“It was not pitiful,” his expression darkens. “No one else was going to defend that woman.”

“Yes, well,” I clear my throat, jabbing my spoon into lukewarm porridge. “I had actually been on my way here anyway before encountering that pasty-faced prick.” If the ancient Elvhen rebel takes offense at my language, his mask of impassivity conceals it. “I just wanted to ask… is it possible for someone to come into their magic after, say, their adolescent years have passed?”

He leans back in his chair, spoon raised halfway between bowl and mouth. “I do not have much experience with such matters. Perhaps you might seek out a Circle mage?”

I scowl, “there have to be a whopping _three_ other mages in all of Haven right now and they're probably all hopped up on Chantry rhetoric. I’m interested in knowing _why_ it’s said that it’s impossible to gain abilities at a late age. Does it have something to do with going through puberty? Emotional maturity? I know some mages discover their gifts in fits of pique or during great mourning, but others simply want to heal a wounded pet or perform a trick of light to please an irate parent.”

The elf arches a brow, tilting his head to the side, “Is there a particular reason for the sudden curiosity?”

I inhale deeply, raising my chin. _Might as well._ “I wasn’t a mage before coming out of the Fade, Solas.”

That catches his attention. He sits up straight and his ears flick back the tiniest fraction. “Was yesterday your first time using magic?”

“Yes.” _Technically true._ _I don’t see why he needs to be made aware of the tunic incident, though._

“Interesting,” he half-smiles, contemplative. “Is anyone else aware of your situation?”

I snort in disbelief. “Other than you, the guy whose ass I burned, anyone he may have told, or those that heard the screaming? Not a soul knows I'm a mage.”

“That is not what I meant,” Solas wrinkles his nose. “For all theyknew, you were in complete control of your magic. I ask if there are any others that know that you gained your power in the Fade.”

“Then no,” I say. _Unless Stanley counts._ “I did plan on telling people at some point, though.”

“Indeed,” Solas agrees, “it would be best to notify the Seeker and a few others before much longer. Perhaps once the _Herald_  awakens?” The way he emphasizes 'Herald' makes me stifle a giggle.

“Sounds like a plan.” Rising from the mattress, I take the two bowls, scraped clean by now, and take my leave. “ _Dar’eth shiral,_ Solas.”

Startled either by the abruptness of my exit or my use of the simple farewell, he responds, “ _Tas na.” I’m like ninety percent sure he said something like ‘You, too’ so that’s a good sign I guess._ “Where did you learn that phrase?”

“Just picked up a few pleasantries here and there,” I undo the latch, letting my full body weight do the work in swinging the door open. _“Tuelanen ama na!” Creators_ _protect you,_ I say. Let him think I visited some Dalish tribe or something. Before he can say anything disparaging, I turn away, hurrying down steps to the tavern in order to return the bowls I had borrowed. Flissa droops a little once she figures out I don't plan to contribute any steamy gossip.

The rest of the day flies by, each hour relieving a bit of pressure behind my temples. I make sure to stop by Adan’s to thank him for that mystery vial. Making use of my gratitude, he ends up putting me to work wrapping poultices and checking up on those injured in the fighting. It's nice, reminds me of working in a chem lab, and I soon fall into a rhythm. I learn the names and characteristics of all sorts of new ingredients, though according to Adan they're nothing really exotic for Ferelden.

For example, there's this one bush with spiny leaves and tiny yellow flowers that grows all over this side of Ferelden. If you squeeze out the fluid in the stems, it can be used in sleeping draughts. However, if you grind up its roots, you could kill an elephant. Not that Ferelden has elephants. I think.

Anyway, most of what Adan has me do is dictated through verbal instruction, so it takes me a long time of fleeting glances before I process it. Nothing in his whole collection of scrolls is written in English. The letters are all completely meaningless archaic symbols. _Somehow, I doubt Adan makes a habit of studying ancient language. That means this is Trade. That means I can't fucking read the Thedosian common tongue._

I believe it is this realization more than any that cements the idea that this is a reality. No way in hell, in no fantasy that my mind could conjure, would I not be able to read Thedas’ lingua franca. Regardless, I grind herbs with a mortar and pestle, boil mixtures over the hearth, and pour out measured doses of potion into flasks.

When I leave that evening, making my way toward the village entrance, I'm fairly satisfied. Most of the pain in my head has dissipated, though a dull ache remains. _Hey. It's been about three days now, right? Kaaras should be waking up real soon. That'll be nice._

I trudge through the village gates. Cullen’s soldiers are outside where the infirmary had been just two nights ago, some sparring, some hacking at training dummies, and still others doing military exercises. Skirting around them, I keep to the iced-over dirt path. Some unknown signal carries through their ranks, dismissing them from the training grounds. The sun _is_ pretty low in the sky.

“Yeah, yeah, she looked like—she looked like _her!”_ A soldier’s gruff voice carries through the crisp air. Something about it makes me look over my shoulder. That proves to be a mistake because, sure enough, Prick Face stands surrounded by a gang of his buddies. “That's the mage tha’ attacked me las’ night!”

_Fuck._


	9. No Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *noncon elements*

I pivot on my heel, continuing to move at a normal pace. Speed walking is for suspicious people.

“Oi, turn around, mage! I wasn't finished talkin’ to ya!” I hear five sets of footsteps behind me, a particularly heavy pair is close on my heels. Obviously, I don't turn around. With what I've seen of him, the prick would likely use that as _evidence_ of my status as a mage. _Is it better to go to Taigen's hut where we'd be out of view of anyone else or to allow them to catch up to me and theoretically figure out I actually am the mage that “attacked” him?_

One of his pals pipes up, a touch more intelligent than the others, “Ey, Dirk, are you sure she's even a mage? You _were_ pretty shit-faced last night.”

Dirk doesn't take too kindly to this. “Are ye questionin’ my judgement, mate? After all I done for ye?”

“No, nothin’ like tha’. I jus’ don’ plan on doin’ nothin’ to get kicked outta the Commander's regiment. I want to be sure of a few things before we take ‘er in. Ey, girlie, we just wanna talk to ya!”

Brushing my forehead where I had been injured, I feel nothing that clearly stands out as a wound thanks to Solas and Adan’s work. That means there should be nothing glaringly obvious to them either. However, it’s tender, so there might very well be bruising. _I have to take a chance._ Straightening my spine and planting my feet, I stop walking, forcing them to move around me if they don't want to talk to the back of my head. If this turns into a five to one confrontation while I’m still unarmed, my only real option would be to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I’d prefer that direction be toward a place with witnesses.

I could chance magic, but that's sorta what got me into this situation.

“What do you want?” I scowl, adopting an imperious tone. _Speak as though you don’t fear your own death._

“Don’t play dumb, mage,” Dirk, now armored, stands far too close to me, close enough that I can practically taste his rancid breath. Bits of food are caked into the corners of his mouth. _A coward, then, who doesn't know how to get his way without using intimidation tactics._ “I know it was you las’ night, so why don’ you just save us all a lotta trouble and confess. See? Right there,” he jabs a fat finger at my forehead, “that’s where I got her with that barrel.”

My expression hardens; I do my best to turn my eyes to piercing shards of blue glass. “Leave me alone. I was the other person that fell out of the Fade, you know. That’s why my face is so beat up. I was _fighting_ just a few days ago.”

“An’ I'm the bloody Queen o’ Antiva,” Dirk barks a laugh, releasing an unfortunate amount of spit in the process. “You really think we'd fall for tha' shite story?”

I nearly roll my eyes, “Your _disbelief_ doesn't make it any less true.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I couldn’t forget eyes that sharp no matter how hammered I got,” Dirk jeers. “I’ll tell you wha’, you show me an’ my mates here a good time, and I can let this whole thing slide. It's nearly sundown, and you wouldn't want the Commander to hear about the apostate wreaking havoc in the village. You could ‘ave killed me, ya know.” Every step he takes toward me is another one I take back.

 _Take a breath._ I duck my head. “You know, _Dirk_ , I think my answer is the only one that makes sense for a girl in my position.”

“Really,” he grins a grin that might be considered feral were it not for the probable gum disease. “And what might tha’ be?”

“There's probably a reason no woman actually _wants_ to fuck you.” With that, I take off sprinting as fast as I can. It’s not even a question of who’s outrunning who. When I toss a look over my shoulder, I see they aren’t chasing after me. It’s a smart move on their part, as pursuing me would raise questions among all those that happen to be within sight. However, I don’t miss Dirk’s rotten smile, the tension in his shoulders, his clenched fists. Maybe I don’t know when to stop, or maybe I just feel a tad safer within the confines of Haven’s walls, but I raise my middle finger triumphantly to the sky.

_You have nothing to be triumphant about. This does not feel like the end._

_I can deal with him._

_Can you? Really? You've bruised his pride in front of his followers. I doubt he will let this go._

A charming laugh behind me makes me slump my shoulders in relief. “I was thinking Blue at first,  but I’m liking the idea of something with more kick. Maybe Birdie, after that whole display. Has a nice ring to it. No, no, wait, I've got it. Combine the two and you've got Bluebird.”  

“That's a nice one, Varric,” I commend him, somewhat out of breath, “How are you?”

“I think that should be my line,” the dwarf raises his eyebrows, pointedly looking from me to the advancing group of thuggish soldiers. “What do they got against you? Anything I should know?”

“Nothing that can't be discussed in a different location,” gripping the dwarf's arm, I tug him in another direction. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

“Woah, woah. I appreciate the interest,” Varric chuckles good-naturedly, “but I'm a taken man.”

Snorting, I roll my eyes, “Not like _that_ , Varric. Wouldn't dream of getting between you and Bianca.” _At least, not when it comes to the crossbow. The woman, on the other hand, I make no promises._ “I just need to talk through some stuff.” He gets the idea, thankfully, leading the way straight to the tavern. It's not exactly private, and It's not the best place for a pounding head, but it's warm and the chances of being heard over the din are slim.

“What'll it be, Bluebird? How strong do you like your ale?” Varric asks, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place.

“Um,” I slip into the seat across from him, “I don't really drink.”

He gestures at the barkeep for a single meal. “What? Don't like to loosen up every now and again?”

“There are other ways to relax than numbing my mind, Varric.” _Not to mention I'm still recovering from a concussion._

“To each their own,” the dwarf shrugs, accepting his mug with a dashing wink at the tavern maid. His voice lowers to one only I can hear through the chatter of conversation. “Now, about those soldiers. What's going on?”

I give him a brief overview of everything that's happened since meeting Dirk last night. At the end of my tale, he whistles long and low. “So you set a drunkard’s trousers on fire, got a concussi-whatever, and now you think Gropey has a vendetta against you. On top of all that, you're a mage now. I don't claim to know anything about Fade crap, but I _can_ tell you the Seeker won't like this one bit. Does make for a decent story, though.”

“That's about right, yeah. But, on another note, your nickname for Dirk is _so_ much better than mine.”

Raising his eyebrows, he says, “I'm almost scared to ask what it was.”

“Prick Face.”

Varric chortles, taking a swig of ale. “I'd say they're about equally magnificent.” With a more serious expression, he adds, “I'd be on guard if I were you. I'll keep an eye out, but I'm not exactly in the best position to help much at the moment. Afraid the Seeker doesn't much trust me. For good reason, really.” He wrinkles his nose, taking a more contemplative sip from his mug.

“I can relate to that.”

“It's not really the same thing with you,” he sighs. “The Seeker and I have our own history. As long as _you_ don't lie to her, well, don't get _caught_ lying to her, you should be fine.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” I nod, snatching an apple and a wedge of cheese from his platter. I want to leave. The longer I stay here, the greater the probability Dirk and his cronies might show up. “I gotta go, Varric.”

“I'll come with you, just to your door,” the dwarf says, following me from the tavern. I don't object. Bianca is strapped to his back, and I wouldn't mind the extra protection.

I leave as fast as I can, scanning the path ahead and keeping to the shadows. When I make it to the Herald's accommodations without incident, I feel a little idiotic. Varric lifts his hand in mock salute, “See ya, Bluebird.”

“Later, Varric.” As silently as possible, I ease the door shut with a click and fasten the latch.

“You. What happened? Is the Breach closed?” The sound of Kaaras’ voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I whirl around, seeing vibrant purple eyes, surprisingly clear despite likely having only recently awakened.

I offer her the apple and hunk of cheese, which she takes gratefully. “Er, no, Kaaras, but you did stabilize it, so that buys us time to properly seal it. On the plus side, your hand is no longer trying to eat you alive.”

“That's an improvement, at least,” Kaaras agrees, biting a huge chunk out of the apple. “How long have I been out?”

I add another log to the low-burning fire, “Including the day we fought the Pride demon, this would be the third night. I imagine Cassandra, Leliana, and the others will want to speak to you, but they don't know you've wakened. If I were you, I'd take advantage of that fact and sleep until tomorrow morning.”

“I've spent more time unconscious than otherwise, lately.”

“I doubt such luck will continue.”

She grunts noncommittally, scratching at her scalp. “Is that a new shirt?”

“Ha, yeah, um, funny story. It's long. Sleep now. I'll tell you later.”

Kaaras shrugs, yawning. In doing so, she finally processes her new Quizzyjamas. “When did _this_ happen?”

“Guess they figured their Maker-sent savior shouldn't be dressed like a mercenary.”

“At this rate, you'll make court jester by Satinalia,” she grins, settling back on her mattress. She's out before her head even hits her pillow. _Boy is she going to be in for a surprise._

About an hour later, just as I'm about to take my boots off, someone forcefully bangs on the door. “In the name of Andraste, open up!” A gruff voice bellows from outside. Kaaras slumbers on. _She must really be tired._

“Jeez, I'm coming, I'm coming.” Unlatching the door and slipping outside, I blink at the pair of men, armor glinting dully under the moon. _Templars? What the hell?_ “What do you want?”

“You, if the description is accurate,” a Templar has me clapped in shackles before I realize what he's doing. “You're to be taken immediately to Val Royeaux for trial.”

I can't decide whether to gape at him or at the restraints. “On what charges? We've discussed this. _Thoroughly._  I didn't kill the Divine.”

“You used magic in an attack that killed an innocent citizen of Haven.”

“What? _Killed?_ He got off in better condition than I did! _”_ I furrow my brows, scanning the area for an explanation. I don't know why I'm surprised to see a smug looking Dirk and two of his minions locked in discussion with Chancellor Roderick, but I am. “That's the guy, and he is very much _alive.”_ When the chancellor and I make eye contact, he turns abruptly, stalking away with a swish of Chantry robes. _Oh, I see. Can't bring me in on the premise of killing the Divine because of Cassandra's intervention, so he'll jump at the opportunity to use anything he can get against me._ “He nearly _raped_ a girl, and knocked _me_ unconscious. I was _helping_. If anyth-”

A frigid blast of energy shreds through my being, sending me to me knees, gasping for air. Everything feels more solid, too solid: the dirt, the air, and my clothes, almost stiflingly so. I claw at frozen earth, desperate to make it bend, make it soft.

“So you admit to using magic to attack him. That's all we needed,” one of the Templars grunts, jamming a balled up piece of cloth in my mouth and painfully prying my jaw apart in the process. It's soaked with a bitter liquid that fills my nose and coats my tongue. The pair of them seize my arms with vice-like grips, attempting to push me along. I dig my heels into frozen dirt, struggling to escape their grasp. The one to my right stops and before I've fully processed what he's about to do, his gloved fist has already connected with my stomach. I double over, coughing through the makeshift gag. That, plus the strange weakening in my limbs, just makes it all the easier for them to get me to the stables, my hands fastened around a horse's saddle horn, and my feet tied to the stirrups.

Straining until I feel the individual tendons in my neck, I expend as much willpower as I'm able into summoning flames, as that seems to be the magic that comes most easily. No matter how hard I push, however, the magic hovers just out of reach. _That cold blast of energy earlier, was I Silenced?_

 _They might actually get away with this. Fuck. This is a medieval setting. In Val Royeaux they could torture me they could hang me this isn't good this isn't good this is bad this is very bad help. Help! HELP!_ I shriek into the silent void in my head.

There is no answer. No snarky comeback, no fallback plan, no self-deprecating insult, no assurance. There is only a pounding heart, cold sitting deep in my bones, and icy tears dripping down my cheeks.

Haven slips farther and farther away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this whole situation is me exploring the idea of negative consequences for positive actions. Also, I wanted to give Chancellor Roderick sharper teeth than he has in-game. 
> 
> *Wiggles fingers* the magic of fanfiction.


	10. An Inquisition Reborn

Something feels wrong, missing. Even with closed eyes I can sense it is so. Sitting up, I allow my vision to adjust to the dimness of the cottage. The fireplace is just ash and shriveled husks of bark. The few candles scattered around the room and the small fire that had been burning in a wall sconce have gone out. There, the latch on the door, it's undone. _I'm certain I remember Ross locking it before I went to sleep. Perhaps she went to fetch something._

The door opens and an elven woman enters carrying a crate of potions and oils. Startled, she drops it and falls to her knees, blubbering about what's happened and where I am. Most of what she says, Ross had relayed to me last night. She informs me that Cassandra awaits me in the Chantry shortly before she flees into the village. Muffled through wooden walls I hear her cry, “she's awake! She's awoken!”

I sigh, scrubbing a hand down my face. I'm a Vashoth, member of the Valo-kas mercenary band, not some divine object for Andrastians to blindly revere. My greatsword leans against the wall by the door and I gratefully sling it over my shoulder. The weight of the weapon comforts me, as does the knowledge that I could defend myself if need be. That said, Ross’ weapons are tucked neatly away near a wooden shelf. It seems she is more trusting than I am. Strange, considering the both of us awoke imprisoned and accused of massacring Chantry officials.

It was surprising to have a human who, other than being understandably disoriented by waking up in shackles, had not first looked at me with fear or anything resembling distrust in their eyes. She was completely at ease with a battle party that barely knew one another's names, calm in the face of the chaotic unknown. _I feel that we will become fast friends, this Ross and I_. Gripping the handle on the door, I yank it open, determined that I will track down that Seeker, Cassandra.

Time seems to slow, every person within sight looks up, catches sight of the glowing mark and moves to stand in an eerie semicircle a good distance from me, leaving a narrow path to walk through. They cross arms over their chests, bowing respectfully and murmuring praise to the _Herald of Andraste._ “What? What are you doing? Stop! I mean, stop. Please. You've got the wrong person.” If anything, the muttering about modesty and miracles only gets _worse_ . _Ross wasn't joking? Is that why they dressed me like this? In a manner more befitting a prophet’s messenger than a Vashoth?_

I look down, not being able to stand the weight of their stares. The dirt is not uninteresting. Underneath the tracks one would expect from normal village life there are rather obvious signs of struggle. Wildly upturned earth in a relatively straight trail indicates someone was digging their heels in to stop assailants, presumably the sets of prints to either side of the center pair. It starts a short distance from my door and continues a good length before morphing into tracks more akin to that of an injured person being half dragged, half supported between two other people. A pit drops in my stomach as I realize the trail leads out of the village, through closed gates.

All signs point to one thing: someone was kidnapped, if not killed. And, if I had to hazard a guess, that someone is Ross.

Clenching my fists, I wander through the village, investigating firepits, the apothecary, a few shops, and the tavern. If anyone knows who I speak of, they call her by different names: healer, apothecary’s assistant, or that woman who climbed on top of a Pride demon’s head to shout orders at us. So few even realize that she is the same woman who fell from the Fade. I am hard-pressed to find people that even remember there _was_ another person that fell from the Fade. I seek out Varric and Solas and, quite by chance, find them both around a cooking pot, partaking of runny eggs and dried jerky. Neither of them have seen Ross since yesterday.  

“Come to think of it, she was telling me she'd gotten into a spot of trouble with some soldier. I'd talk with Curly if the Seeker can't help,” Varric suggests.

Solas, having raised a long finger and closed his eyes, opens them once more, alarmed. “I do not sense her aura anywhere nearby. I do not think she could have learned to conceal it in such a short time.”

“Aura?” I furrow my brow. “Isn't that only something that mages have?”

“In the Fade,” the apostate explains, “some unknown event occurred, the result of which led to her receiving magical abilities. It is not so far-fetched. You now have the mark, after all.”

“Yeah, she told me about that too. This shit keeps getting weirder,” Varric mutters, looking at his plate like he wishes it would transform into a tankard of ale.

Thanking them, I decide to continue all the way up to the Chantry and meet with Cassandra. This _will_ be addressed. Burning incense and an almost obscene number of candles fill my senses. Sisters mutter about being ignored by the even bigger Chantry in Val Royeaux. I hear the name “Chancellor Roderick” on many people's lips. _Chancellor Roderick,_ I muse, _I remember him. Kept telling Cassandra to retreat, that sealing the Breach was futile. Bullshit._

Speaking of, that's who's locked in an argument with Cassandra about _me_ , if I'm not mistaken. Upon entering, the chancellor first tries to arrest me, and when that fails, he accuses me of purposely failing to seal the Breach correctly. I…think. It's difficult to keep up with his raving.

Cassandra rushes to my defense, at least. “Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

The redhead in the chainmail and purple hood, Leliana, steps in, declaring their intentions to hunt down whoever was really responsible for killing the Divine. Someone _close_ whom no one expected.

Roderick's face twists furiously. “ _I_ am a suspect?”

“You,” Leliana narrows her eyes, “and many others.”

Crossing his arms, Roderick scowls, “But _not_ the prisoner.”

“ _Prisoners_. And they should no longer be viewed as such. I heard Most Holy call out to this woman for help. The other was in no position to do anything,” the Seeker points out.

“So their survival? That _thing_ on her hand? All a coincidence?”

“Providence. The Maker sent them to us in our darkest hour.” Cassandra draws up to her full height. There is no questioning her belief in her own words.

 _Oh. No. No no. No. “_ You can't honestly believe I'm some sort of _chosen one_ . I'm a qunari, Vashoth, a  _mercenary,_  if that's somehow escaped your notice.”

Her dark eyes are warm, shining, sure of themselves. “No matter what you are or what you believe, you were exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

Leliana's eyes, on the other hand, are sharp and calculating. “The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it.”

Roderick objects to the Sister’s claim, but before he can get very far with it the Seeker slams a massive book on the table. “Do you know what this is, Chancellor? A writ from the Divine granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” Advancing on the chancellor, she continues, jabbing a gloved finger at him to punctuate each point. “We will close the Breach. We will find those responsible. And we _will_ restore order. With or without your approval.”

Roderick, sensing his defeat, storms out of the room, leaving the two women to fill me in on what exactly being an Inquisition entails. We have no Chantry support, no real financial backing, and no real allies. Their goals sound pretty reasonable from how I understand it: making all the weird shit go back to not being weird and maybe even making things less shitty than they were before. “That's something I can get behind, but there's still something I need to talk about.”

“Go on,” Leliana bids me to continue.

“Ross is gone. I've looked for her in the village. At best, no one has seen her since yesterday. Solas can't sense her aura, and there are extremely suspicious tracks outside my house.”

“I had heard reports of three missing horses,” Leliana murmurs, expression rapidly darkening. “I had not thought…”

“What do you mean, _aura?_ ” Cassandra leans toward me.

“Solas said something about her getting magical abilities in the Fade.”

The Seeker shakes her head disbelievingly. “That is impossible!”

“It was the _physical Fade_ , Cassandra,” Leliana points out. “Who knows what is possible anymore?”

“Do you have any idea who could have taken her?” I ask.

Cassandra grimaces. “Even if I did, we have no way of knowing where they are going.”

“That is not _completely_ true,” Leliana corrects, a cunning gleam in her eye. “We may not know who physically abducted her as of yet, but there is only one person who might have orchestrated such a thing.” A slow smile creeps across her face, one that would make even the most despicable of men think twice before crossing her. “I think there are some things our dear Chancellor has forgotten to mention.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have split chapter fourteen into two parts so I can get this one out and not leave you completely hanging. Starting tomorrow, my output is likely going to be significantly slower.


	11. Thanks, Adan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this very well may become, optimistically speaking, very short chapters updated once a week and almost exclusively on the weekend.

I suppose that I must have fallen asleep at some point, considering that I wake up to the gentle rolling of a horse. The sky is a slightly lighter tint of grey as it peeks through the trees above me. _Trees? How?_ My eyes are not mistaken, however. Most of the snow characteristic to the land around Haven has vanished. It's not nearly as cold, either.

_There, you've successfully identified the one and only positive thing about this situation. Do you feel better now?_

_A little. It's good to have you back._

_It's good to be back. Now let's focus on getting out of here._

Let's see. The shackles fastened around my wrists are made of iron, pretty secure, and I have nothing on me to assist in picking the lock. A key. I'll need a key. _Aha. There. The Templar that's riding on the roan in front. There's one hanging from his belt._ The man–I'll call him Knuckles until I get his real name–has broad shoulders and a massive bald patch right in the center of his head. If memory serves, that Templar was the one who punched me in the stomach last night. Not a nice fellow, but I'll have to manage to swipe that key from him somehow.

I can't see the man behind me, but I can hear his clinking armor and the snorting of his horse. I know he's a Templar, and I know he helped Knuckles. I think I'll just call him Accomplice _._

That balled up rag soaked in, well, let's call it a depressant, is still stuffed inside my mouth. I think its potency has worn off some, considering I'm capable of stringing two sentences together.  I don't dare attempt to reach for my magic because not only do I have no real clue as to what I would do with it, but these are _Templars_. They'd be sure to sense it, and be even more sure to, er, _remedy_ the situation. That means another dose of the drug in the best case situation, and relinquishing the awareness I now possess. _Fuck that._

“Hey, I think the mage's awake! Let's pick up the pace, yeah?” Accomplice’s voice splits through the crisp air. Casting a dark glance at me, Knuckles jerks his head in a motion that could, at least among particularly subjective circles, be construed as a nod.

And pick up the pace they do, because now we are galloping down dirt paths overshadowed by arching tree branches, just within sight of a contrastingly mellow river. I've ridden a full-sized horse only once before in my life and this is a vastly different scenario. Bouncing roughly in the saddle through unknown terrain, unaccustomed to the motion, I am suddenly the tiniest bit thankful to be so securely tied down.

We ride for hours, alternating between a swift trot and a gallop until the sun nears its zenith in the sky and my tailbone is well on its way to bruising. We make camp at the river's edge, taking advantage of the area to water the horses. Accomplice unties me, and once I've awkwardly disentangled myself from the stirrups, he also removes the drugged gag. After hours of being forced open, my jaw and teeth are incredibly tender. I'm not going to be able to eat anything solid for several hours at least.

All in all, I’ve had more than enough time to break down my situation.

I need the key on Knuckles’ belt to get out of these shackles. I already have a horse, three actually, should a situation arise during which I can take my pick. I'm being taken to Val Royeaux to await a trial. By trial, that means execution. So, if I want to survive, and I do find myself fond of the idea, I need to get away as quickly and safely as possible, preferably before I'm in Orlais. From the years playing Origins where the entire world map was Ferelden, I know that provided we get on the Imperial Highway, we'll ride along the length of Lake Calenhad, cross through Honnleath, past the entrance to Orzammar, and bypass a few other human cities before crossing the border. Then it's a long road through Orlais before Val Royeaux. I have time.

_Or we could be headed for a Ferelden port city. Those do exist, you know, and would make the journey much shorter. Your first priority is to figure out how to get that key from Knuckles._

_Knuckles, Knuckles, Knuckles, what am I going to do with you?_

I watch over the next hour as he withdraws a deck of cards from a saddlebag and strikes up a game with Accomplice. They eat and drink together, offering me a cup of broth and a few sips from a water skin. I don't miss the dull glint of a flask as Knuckles moves to hand me the broth. _Yeah, I doubt that's alcohol._ Taking a subtle sniff, I detect a faint trace of the bitterness I know all too well. _Whether or not I actually drink it, that's the question._ I catch the odd casual glances from each of them. _Can't pretend to drink and then dump it out. They're not as inattentive as they seem._

 _Straight and to the point, then. “_ So you're going to give me another dose of that drug.”

“Either you drink the magebane, or we force some down your throat and put the gag back in,” Knuckles orders, not looking up from his cards.

_Magebane. That should only affect my magic, right? Maybe the scatterbrained effect was only because of shock._

_That makes this a different situation altogether._

“If I drink it, can we talk?” I raise a brow, thinking fast. Maybe I can convince them to let me go somehow. Not that they'd have any reason to agree. I don't exactly have negotiating power at the moment.

“What could we possibly have to say to a _murderer?”_ Knuckles scoffs, swiping a card from Accomplice's hand.

“Wait,” a half grin flickers across my lips before I can help it, “you both think I _actually_ murdered someone? Did Chancellor Roderick tell you that?”

“Well we have the charges all written down on that scroll, don't we?” Accomplice says, only to be elbowed in the ribs by Knuckles. Awfully hard to effectively elbow someone through plate armor, but I won't judge.

Sighing, I roll my eyes. “Fine.” With a grimace, I toss back the embittered contents of the cup, emphasizing the motion of swallowing. Considering their wide-eyed stares, I don't think they actually expected me to follow through. Perhaps I hadn't noticed it up in the Frostbacks, but the magebane makes my body go cold, numb, like I couldn't grab onto my magic even if I could gather the strength to reach out for it. I shake myself. _It's not important right now._ “Now, fellas, allow me to fill you in on what _really_ happened.”

\---

“No reason for us to believe a single word outta your poisonous mouth, mage,” Knuckles scowls, but his heart doesn't seem quite in it.

“Look, maybe you don't follow Commander Rutherford, per se, but you have to at least respect him, right? After Kinloch? After standing up to a Knight-Commander gone mad?”

“He's no Templar anymore,” Accomplice puts in, quiet. “Turned his back on the Order and took a bunch of our brothers and sisters with him.”

“Does that make him any less worthy of your respect? Let me tell you, if I were to speak to him about what's happened, I most certainly would not be en route to Val Royeaux. He would have heard out the claims of all parties involved before coming to a reasonable decision. Do you know why?”

“Why?” Accomplice asks.

“Because Cullen Rutherford cares about doing what's right,” I say, settling my sweaty palms on my knees. “You two were in Haven for the Conclave, which was a _peace talk_ , and you aren't roaming around the Hinterlands, leaderless, and murdering rabid apostates. You aren’t all that bad, from what I gather.”

“So what?” Knuckles grinds out.

“So what?” I repeat, smiling lazily. “ _So,_ would you rather follow a Chantry underling making a desperate grab for power, or a _real_ man? One who actually respects the will of the Maker rather than using it to manipulate others. One who can earn trust rather than barter for it with the lives of innocents.”

“You talk real nice, miss,” Accomplice mumbles, shuffling through his cards.

“Shut it, you,” Knuckles glares at Accomplice before jabbing a threatening finger at me. “Mage, I don't want to hear another word from you until we reach Val Royeaux and we hand you over to the clerics. Got that?”

 _So close. So fucking close._ “Yes, ser.”

“You deaf, mage? I said not another word.”

Looking him dead in the eyes, I convey the loudest mental _fuck you_ I have ever given before flopping on the ground and turning on my side. They only had the one tent and that was for them at all times. One would sleep while the other would be on watch in case I got past the magebane and decided to burn the whole forest down or something.

The two of them sit in silence for a time, sluggishly carrying on their card game under the noonday sun. Eventually, I drift into a fickle state of semi-consciousness, magebane, shackles, and all.

\---

Two days later, having been riding in a daze near the southwestern edge of Lake Calenhad, it takes me far too long to notice the spiny leafed bushes with tiny yellow flowers growing along the side of the road. _Those were in Adan's scrolls, weren't they? I'm pretty sure they were._

_Oh._

_OH!_

“I need to take a piss!” I shout when I know we're nearing midday break. Turns out the “no speaking till Val Royeaux” thing wasn't completely serious, but a warning that my words shouldn't be leading them toward existential crisis.

Knuckles curses, turning to face me on his horse. “Didn't you go earlier?”

“That was about six hours ago,” I point out, trying not to let excitement bleed into my voice.

“Fine. Two minutes.”

“Turn around, then,” I scold, falling from the horse thanks to the iron manacles.

Knuckles scoffs. “What, so you can run away? Ha.”

“You could chase me down easily,” I roll my eyes, getting to my feet. “If it makes you feel better we can just make awkward eye contact while you listen to me pee.” To prove my point, I pull down my trousers once I'm positioned behind a bush, gaze intense and unwavering until he clears his throat and looks away. _I win._

Now free of their stares, I grab a few flowered stems from the plant and stuff them in my boot.

 _Don't you remember? The roots work as a poison. Why only put them to sleep and risk them hunting you down again when you could make_ **_sure_ ** _they won't?_

_Because they aren't currently trying to kill me. They haven't beat me, or been unnecessarily cruel._

_They are, in fact, literally escorting you to your own execution._

_Trial._

_What's the difference in this world?_

_I'm not going to sink to their level. I'll leave them be._

_Rosalind—_

_No. I'm not killing anyone, at least not in such an underhanded way. I mean, I'll probably have to kill people at some point, but that time is not now._

Tugging my breeches back into place, I awkwardly clamber back into the saddle.

\---

There's never been a more model prisoner. Tossed back the magebane spiked stew they gave me with only a grimace, and I've made sure each one of us has had a bowl of the regular stuff. They're distracted with their card game and I'm operating under the guise of getting seconds when I squeeze the excess stem juice into the stew. It's about now that I usually turn my back to them and try to sleep, but this time I'm wide awake.

Within half an hour, their breathing has deepened to the point I feel safe flipping over. I sigh in relief. They're asleep. Deeply asleep and sprawled on top of each other. I creep up to Knuckles, hesitantly at first, but becoming more confident as my hand closes around the key at his belt. I have to dig my nails into the palms of my hands to stop them from shaking as I slide the key into the lock and twist until it clicks open.

The shackles fall to the forest floor. I touch my wrists, chafed and blistered and rubbed raw, but free for the first time in days. I feel myself go a little misty-eyed.

_No. No time for shock yet. Get out first._

_Right. Gotta be smart about this._

Before backing away from Knuckles, something urges me to take the flask of magebane from him as well, putting it in one of my horse's saddlebags. There's no way I'll be able to figure out the Templars’ tent well enough to pack it up and I don't know how long they'll be knocked out for. I move some extra food from their horses to mine, though I leave some on the grass near the crackling campfire so they don't starve. I don't plan on leaving the horses here. That's pretty much an open invitation to catch up with me.

_Invitation...that's right. Chancellor Roderick's order._

I search through the saddlebags on the Templars’ horses, eventually finding a small scroll bound with a Chantry seal. I go to open it before remembering that I still can't fucking read. Sighing, I tuck the scroll into one of my own horse's saddlebags, untie all three steeds, and set off down the path from which I came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, I'm really sorry guys. It might be a while before the next one. I'll try to get something out by the end of the month at least. I sorta want to try my hand at writing a couple other things for other fandoms and I barely have any time as it is. 
> 
> Why aren't time-turners real? Honestly.


	12. Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate being sick my brain gets so slow.

My heart's still pounding hours after leaving the Templars behind and I can't say whether it's due to fear or bursts of adrenaline. For the first hour or so, I check behind me every other minute, flinching at snapping twigs and animals skittering through the underbrush. When the wind rustles through the leaves, I flick the reins over my palomino, urging it onward at an invigorated pace. The other two horses keep up with me, which is a relief. I would have felt bad leaving them wandering the forests of...the Hinterlands? I'm not quite there yet _. Does this area even have a name? Maybe just ‘Some Random-Ass Woodland Area in Ferelden’. Yeah. That has a nice ring to it._

I ride through the night, only stopping to let the horses drink and graze a little. Each time I return to the road, I mount a different animal, not wanting to make one horse bear my weight the whole time when I don't have to. I'm more careful once the sun sets, wary of treacherous tree roots, snakes, and accidentally straying from the path. The chirp of crickets, hoot of owls, and deep-throated croak of frogs coax me from my jittery paranoia, reminding me of the camping expeditions I used to go on as a kid.

Something about night itself is comforting, like a blanket that muffles everything but our very most basic selves. Life is simpler when it's bathed in moonlight.

Once, when I'm crossing through a large clearing, I have to get off my horse and just stop. _Those_ _stars_ … so different from the familiar Big Dipper or Ursa Major, but absolutely breathtaking nonetheless. Without a single electric light on the continent to dull them, they fill the sky in swirling patterns, twinkling mischievously at the land below. Bursts of space dust shimmer in bands, faint strokes added to an already dazzling canvas. My fingers find themselves skimming along the stars inked into my own skin. _Just wait until Dad sees this. He could bring out his telescope and we can make cookies or something, just like we used to._ I reach for my phone to text him before remembering.

_You realize that, since it's more probable this is reality than not, you'll never see any of your family, any of your friends, ever again for as long as you live. How does that make you feel?_

_We're the same person. You tell me._

_I wonder, do they think you're dead? Abducted? Have they had a funeral yet, or maybe no one yet realizes anything is wrong. How much time has passed there? Does time even flow the same as here? If so, you've been gone for over nine days. That means you missed finals. You'll never get your Masters degree._

_We both know I would have passed finals._

_Yes, avoid thinking about everything else I said. Wouldn't want to do something silly like facing reality._

_You know me, always dreaming._

_It's a shame you won't get to go on that trip to Galveston with Dr. Powell._

_Shit, I forgot about that! We were going to look at the effects aquatic hypoxia had on the ecosystem, as well as how it impacted the lifestyles of the coastal community. It sounded so exciting._

_As exciting as drugging a pair of Templars and fleeing on horseback? I think not._

_Writing observations about eutrophication and the resulting algal blooms that are depriving the water of oxygen is twice as thrilling, all jokes aside._

With my temporary aversion to sleep and Turbo Maximum Efficiency Horse-swapping System™, time flies by. When I get hungry, I eat some nuts and berries from one of the saddlebags. At one point, I consider trying to use magic to hunt, as I can sense the magebane has worn off and I feel reasonably certain I could manage a cooking fire of all things. My only problem is that, while I _could_ bluster around until I killed a nug or a fennec, I don't have the knowledge or the tools to go about preparing it.

Nuts and berries will do.

* * *

 

When I finally arrive at Haven, having found my way by following the massive beacon that is the stabilized Breach, it is early morning and I am exhausted as fuck. The gates have been recently opened, with a few soldiers already sparring outside. Some of them already sport the tell-tale green of Inquisition armor. Harritt and the other blacksmiths hammer away at weapons, horseshoes, and other miscellaneous items. Cullen Rutherford himself stands near the gates, squinting at a report and nodding along to whatever the man next to him is suggesting.

I ride up to the stables, which are much much larger than they were in-game, and leave them with a startled man in scouting armor. “Why do you have three horses? We're in short enough supply as it is!” I retrieve the wax sealed scroll and flask of magebane from the saddlebags, only offering a tired grin and jaunty wave before staggering away. I'm _almost_ through the gates before Cullen passes me by. _Damn, that man knows how to work an English accent._

“Get them started on the new drills, Rylen. I believe Cassandra is requesting my presence in the War Room.” Once his second in command has departed, he looks toward the Chantry with a sigh.

“Cull—Commander Rutherford?” I touch a steel-plated arm, resisting the urge to pet that fluffy red fur he always has on.

“What is it?” he turns, reverting back to professional mode.

I smile faintly, “can I go with you?”

“What for?” his brow furrows. “The War Room is not for civilian matters. If you are here to join the Inquisition, see Rylen, Ambassador Montilyet, or Sister Leliana at a later time.”

“Commander,” I prevent him from continuing. “Listen, my entire body hurts, I smell like a pile of manure on a summer day, I haven't slept in maybe forty-two hours, and I haven't eaten much over the past five days. Can't I at least expect to be heard out?”

“What are you—” realization dawns over his features. “Oh, Maker. Are _you_ the woman we sent that search party after?”

“You sent a search party after me?” I find myself touched. Even if their reasons were purely practical, the fact that they even bothered sends a warm fuzzy feeling to my stomach.

“We did,” Cullen nods, gesturing for me to  accompany him. I do, and we walk up the path together to the Chantry. “You have been the talk of the town, you know. News circulated quickly that you were missing. We still don't quite know how word got out, but it did.” My discomfort at entering the incense-filled Chantry must be obvious because Cullen keeps looking at me oddly. _Maybe he also thinks I killed someone with my demonic mage-fire._ He pushes open the War Room door to various greetings, then I slip in after him.

The war table is massive, figurines scattered across a yellowed map of Thedas. “Ross!” Kaaras’ violet eyes widen disbelievingly. “The scouts already caught up to you? It should have taken several more days at least,” her head swivels toward Leliana for confirmation, “right?”

“Yes,” the spymaster dips her head, narrowing her eyes in appraising fashion. “We had hoped to intercept you by the time you reached Val Royeaux if possible. What happened?”

I deliver a summarized explanation, speaking about Dirk’s collusion with the chancellor to frame me for a murder, the pair of Templars, and my escape due to that sleeping plant.

“I know the man you speak of,” Cullen frowns, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “He is often drunk and very, ah, free with women.”

“If by free you mean forceful and indifferent to consent, then yes, I'd say he's _very_ free with women,” my eyes flash, piercing shards of blue glass.

“Chancellor Roderick has admitted to having a hand in the affair, though he is adamant his actions were justified. Do you happen to have any evidence to bring truth to your claim, Mistress, ah,” Josephine falters, stricken. “It seems in our haste we have forgotten introductions. I am Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador to the Inquisition.”

“Ross. Short for Rosalind,” I reply, “It's a pleasure to meet you.” Setting the silver flask and slightly crumpled scroll on the edge of the war table, I add, “And yes, Josephine, I do have proof. Probably.”

The Vashoth snorts, “ _Probably_ is not very reassuring, you know.”

“Magebane,” Cullen muses as he sniffs the contents of the container. “Where could they have gotten this? Since the war began, most of the stockpiles have been ransacked.”

Leliana, meanwhile, takes the scroll, breaking the seal and quickly scanning lines of text. “Yes, right here,” she clears her throat. _“I hereby send this heinous blasphemer, already a prime suspect in the death of Divine Justinia, to the Val Royeaux Chantry so that she might be judged swiftly and justly for the magical assault and murder of Orlan Mansker. This was witnessed by one Dirk Sturgeon as well as two other citizens of Haven. I trust her execution might serve as an example to those who stand against the Maker's will. Regards, Chancellor Roderick Asignon._ ”

_That. Mother. Fucker._

Josephine rifles through a stack of papers, pursing her lips. “Just as I thought, there is no Orlan Mansker listed in our registry.”

“That bureaucrat _dares_ to make up such a farce? He would have had you killed in cold blood!” Cassandra’s expression darkens; storm clouds are brewing behind those eyes. “I cannot abide this.”

Cullen rubs the nape of his neck, sighing, “I will handle Sturgeon’s punishment.”

“Are you removing him from the Inquisition? Because it's an _extremely_ bad idea to let him stay,” Kaaras inserts.

Cullen half-heartedly protests, “We aren't in the position to refuse—”

“I know a mercenary band isn't quite the same thing as the Inquisition reborn, Commander, but not even the Valo-kas would have allowed someone who would sell out their own to stay. Maintaining a decent reputation is difficult enough.”

“A valid point,” he concedes. “He will be dismissed come tomorrow morning, unless you wish to question him.”

“I would,” Leliana says. “I would also like to—” the door flies open, revealing a purple-faced Chancellor Roderick.

“What is the meaning of this?” He hisses, jabbing a finger at me.

Exhausted, and thus dangerously low on ‘fucks given’ levels, I bare my teeth at him in a hollow imitation of a grin, “ _This_ is a pronoun used to indicate a person or object that is close to the speaker.”

“I suppose you killed those Templars too, eh? I knew I should have sent an entire regiment with you,” he continues, ignoring my asinine comment. “This is what comes of trusting mages.”

“You can stop this charade, Chancellor. All I fucking did was set a prick’s clothes on fire,” I snap, sick of this bullshit justice system. “You know why? Because he was going to _rape_ a girl. That shit doesn't fly with me, _shouldn't_ fly with _anyone_ ; I don't give a rat’s ass if they're Chasind or Orlesian nobility, it is not fucking okay. Just because some asshole's pathetic little ego got a boo-boo doesn't mean I need to be fucking executed. Do you _grasp_ that you were _sending me to my death?_ ” A metal plated glove wraps my arm in a firm grip, bringing my attention to the blazing glow emanating from my skin. It's Cullen, trying to snap me back to reality. _Shut up, Rosalind_.  _No one needs your meltdowns._ I close my eyes and inhale deeply, imagining all the anger and passion coalescing into a ball of energy, then letting it leave my body with the air from my lungs.

When I open my eyes again, I do not miss the amount of hands clutching weapons. The Chancellor's face has gone completely white. When I speak, it is with utter calm, nearly indistinguishable from a Tranquil’s monotone. “Chancellor. I have killed no one. I will be staying here. I will help the Inquisition, and I suggest you leave. I am tired and you are one of the few people I do not wish to see right now. Goodbye.”

“Of all the _nerve,_ ” he splutters, drawing himself up. “You cannot tell _me_ what to do.”

“We know the truth,” Cassandra replaces her half-drawn blade. “You no longer have jurisdiction over either of these women, Chancellor. Now, if you will excuse us, we have plans to sort out.”

Knowing argument is futile, Roderick scowls, stalking out of the room. Cassandra shuts the door after him.

“Thank you, Commander,” I say, tone still bland. Startled, he relinquishes my arm.

“That is some scary shit, Ross,” Kaaras shifts, uneasy.

“Yes, I am aware that I need to work on controlling my power. I did actually want to discuss that with you all.”

“No, I mean that mood shift. Can you just, uh, switch back?”

“Oh,” I blink, “eventually.”

“I don't believe I've ever seen a mage reign in their emotions so drastically before,” Cullen mutters, “or use such foul language against a Chantry member. Though I am glad that you did calm yourself. Explaining to the Chantry why Chancellor Roderick is now a pile of ashes would not have gone over smoothly.”

I shrug. “Understanding how to ignore emotion is something I have learned through time. It is useful for emergencies.”

“You meant what you told the Chancellor, I hope, about joining the Inquisition.” Leliana's words are more statement than question.

“Yes.”

“Good,” she relaxes slightly. “Give Josephine your information for the registrar, and later you can discuss what you will be doing for the next few weeks.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Arrange lessons with a mage while you're at it,” Cullen suggests. “We don't need a repeat of the past week's incidents. _”_

“What is your full name?” Josephine asks, brandishing her quill.

“Rosalind Amelia Clarke.”

She scratches some things out on parchment. “And this is the correct spelling?” she asks, turning the page so I can see.

“It looks fine.” _I still can't read. That will have to be addressed eventually. I don't exactly behave like a scruffy nerf-herder, so it'll be hard to explain away illiteracy._

“Excellent. Where are you from?”

“I would prefer not to say.”

“Something to hide?” Leliana arches a slender brow.

“Not particularly. It's just that I've moved from place to place all my life and I don't have a single living family member in Thedas so I don't see the relevance of my place of origin. If I had to guess, I'd say I was born in Denerim.”

“I...see,” Josephine murmurs, writing down notes next to my name. “Why were you at the Conclave?”

“I had nowhere better to be. It was supposed to be history in the making, and that's about as intriguing as it gets.”

“You were only here because you were _intrigued?”_ Kaaras asks, incredulous.

"Yes."

“Forgive my asking, Lady Rosalind, but how old are you?”

“Twenty two, and I am by no means a lady.”

“That is all for now. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The Seeker frowns. “You look as though you could use some rest.”

I pause a long moment, processing, “Yes.” Then I make my escape, tottering out of the Chantry to me and Kaaras’ shared cottage. Inside is a straw mattress off to the side with a basket resting on top of it. It's filled with bath oils, ointments, and creams. There's one jar that's filled with a gritty minty substance. I hope it's Thedosian toothpaste, because that's what I use it as. It works reasonably well, for what it's worth.

Before I settle down on the mattress, I retrieve one of my daggers, placing it so that the hilt sticks out neatly from beneath the straw.

_Never again will I be so careless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached two thousand hits and two hundred kudos! Thank you, dear readers. I'm glad you enjoy this fic so far.


	13. The One-Balled Wonder

I hurl myself upright with a gasp, half expecting forest soil and gruff Templars. Neither of those things are here. I am on a mattress in a house with shelves and clay earthenware and papers scattered about. There is no light shining from beneath the door. It is dark outside. Kaaras is sprawled across her bed, cocooned in a thick quilt and snoring. I am safe.

My thoughts are a muted chaos, they argue and speak over each other. I have had far too much excitement for one week and I think that now I am prepared to move forward. From now on, I'll have a weapon somewhere on my person at all times. Frankly, it was stupid of me to go without one in the first place. _Dad would be so disappointed._ I'll keep working, keep my head down as much as possible, stay the fuck away from Solas. And I mean _stay the fuck away_ from Solas. He’s clever and cunning, certainly a potential threat, with a melodic voice and ugh this is already difficult.

_What if you get dragged along to the Hinterlands? Solas will be there. You'll have no choice but to talk. Wouldn't it be better to be friendly? You gave him gratitude porridge, remember? If you ignore him, the egg might take it the wrong way. Besides, we both know he has one of the most interesting perspectives on life in all of Thedas. It'd be a shame to miss out._

_You mean the perspective that killing everyone now will somehow make up for killing only_ mostly _everyone hundreds of years ago. That's my all time favorite bit of logic._ I sigh, scrubbing at my eyes.

 _I said interesting, not morally flawless. Do you forget the way he ripped apart half of the lore you'd learned about spirits and the Fade in just a few sentences? How you stared at your computer screen for minutes on end, marveling at how the devs forced you to apply your own real world reasoning toward inaccuracies and contradictions in history books and religious texts to a_  game?

_It's just so confusing. I'm thinking that maybe if I just behave like we're reasonably amiable co-workers that'll be fine._

_Rosalind, think for a second here. Really think. You have within your grasp something you've wanted since the moment you let the Dread Wolf take your arm and hightail it through a mirror. You could talk him out of it. Somehow there has to be a way._

_What makes you think I could convince him to change course if Lavellan couldn't?_ I stretch a bare foot from atop my mattress to the cold stone floor, allowing the rest of my body to follow in a fluid movement. I arch my back and extend my leg at the most vertical angle that I can, feeling muscles pleasantly pull and stretch with the action.

_Stanley. Remember his whole ‘stop the Dread Wolf and also the Blight it's no big deal’ thing?_

_How could I forget._ Now I'm resting on my hands, allowing my legs to point outward a foot above the floor. _I won't take any special pains in avoiding Solas. Now that I think about it, avoiding him might look pretty conspicuous._

I finish my stretching, sweat beads across my brow, and my limbs are pleasantly sore. Strapping a dagger and coin purse to the belt around my waist, I slip out the door. “Good morning, my lady,” a soldier's greeting makes me jump, hand flying to the hilt of my weapon.

“Who are you?” I narrow my eyes, nearly backing into a _second_ soldier. “Both of you?”

The first soldier raises his hands defensively, saying, “Commander Rutherford ordered a watch put outside the Herald's door once you were taken, my lady. We apologise if we frightened you.” They _are_ both dressed in Inquisition armor.

“Oh, um, no problem. Thank you.” _Were they here last night?_

_Most likely._

Cheeks burning, I scurry away. _What to do? I need something to do_ … I make my way around the village, checking in on those still recovering from their injuries, though I find most of them holed up in the Chantry. For the most part, people are healing smoothly and much more quickly than they would have on Earth. _Perhaps thanks to Adan's potions_? My nitpicking must have sunk into the heads of the Chantry sisters, as infection is found in injuries few and far between.

“Hello, messere,” a familiar raven-haired woman greets me. She's leaning on a wall near a side door, the one that leads to the dungeons if I recall correctly. Bandaging peeks out from beneath an exceptionally long tunic.

“Erica,” I recall, moving to join her. “How are you doing?”

“Better than I've any right to be,” she grins, teeth flashing in the torchlight. “I remembered most of what you'd said, so when others tried tending to my leg I could give them some instruction.”

“I see you're standing alright. Any clue when you'll be able to hold a sword again?”

Erica grimaces, “Actually, I thought you might have a better idea.”

“Does it hurt to walk?”

“My leg is sore, but no more than it is after a day of rigorous training exercises.”

I hum contemplatively. “Walking is probably fine then, _maybe_ jogging in a few days if you think you can handle it. I'd give it another week, maybe two, before you should start weaning back into training.”

She nods, grim. “Is it alright if I participate in exercises that mostly utilize my upper body?”

“I’d still wait a few more days, but you can give it a shot. Be _very_ careful, use your best judgement, and I bet you'll be back to whacking demons in the head in no time.”

“What is this I hear about whacking demons in the head?” Yet another familiar voice asks.

Erica automatically stiffens, arm crossing over her chest. “Commander, ser, we were discussing when I might get back to training, ser.”

“No need to be so formal, Trevelyan,” Cullen chuckles. “Calling me by name is fine when we aren't marching to battle. You _are_ ranked just below Rylen.”

_Trevelyan? The Trevelyan? But shouldn't she be dead? Does that mean there's a Lavellan and a Cadash somewhere out there?_

She tugs at her collar uneasily, “Sorry, ser. I mean... Rutherford. I'm getting used to it.”

Glancing between her and myself, he continues, “so when _will_ you be able to get back to training?”

“If everything goes well, hopefully no more than two weeks,” I answer.

“That's good,” he smiles, pleased at the relatively swift recovery time. “You should go speak with Rylen. He's been worried sick about you.”

“This is just your way of getting me to write up reports, isn't it?” Erica wrinkles her nose.

“Perhaps,” Cullen admits, not looking apologetic in the slightest.

She grins despite this. “Fine. It's boring being incapacitated anyway.” Clearly favoring her injured leg, she exits the Chantry.

Cullen turns to me, remnants of a smile still softening his face. “We continued speaking about who should assist you during your magical studies after you left last night.”

“What did you decide?” _Probably an ex-Circle mage with a stick up their ass. Ugh._

“There are only three other mages currently in Haven. Minaeve, the creature researcher, is only an apprentice. There is a ten year old child in Minaeve’s care who is, understandably, completely out of the question. That left only the elven apostate, Solas,” he hands me a bound scroll. “You will report to him by the end of today. See that he receives this.”

_What._

_Wait, hold on a second._ “Cullen,” I hold up a finger to stop his departure. “Dirk is...gone, right?”

His lip quirks up a little, warping his scar. “Sturgeon? Yes, he was dismissed before dawn. He is gone, and not completely unscathed, either.”

“What does that mean? What happened?”

“Varric happened. He, ah, _accidentally_ misfired Bianca while the man was walking past, and a bolt pierced a rather, ah, sensitive area. His left testicle had to be removed.” With that absolute gem of knowledge bestowed upon me, he dips his head in farewell and slips into Josephine's office.

A snort escapes my lips, followed by a deep chuckle that bubbles up into breathlessly hysterical laughter. Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I gasp for air, hanging onto a pillar for dear life. “That's beautiful. Oh god, it's perfect. Oh _man. He'll go to have sex and he'll only have one ball!”_  The hysterical laughter has turned to hysterical howling, and by now people are coming out of the halls to complain about the horrible ruckus I'm causing.

I can't bring myself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That marvelous ending to Dirk's existence in this story was inspired by boattattoo.


	14. Take a Chill Quill

I am crossing by the front gates later that afternoon, on my way to Solas’ cottage, when I hear Varric’s voice. “Hey, Bluebird, how's it feel to be back?”

I approach the dwarf, joining him at a fire pit near his tent. “To be honest? It's sort of surreal. It's almost like I was never even gone. It sounds self centered, I know, but it's always a bit strange when life moves on without you, even for such a short time.”

“Believe me, I get it,” Varric nods, driving a stick wrapped with pieces of meat between burning logs. “Back in Kirkwall, people vanish off the streets all the time, and nobody notices. If they _do_ notice, they don't say a word. Too busy looking after their own skins to worry about anybody else's. That’s one of the reasons we accepted Anders’ craziness for so long, you know. He was doing something for the sorts of people no one else gave a nug's ass about, and we all looked the other way. Kept looking the other way until it was too late and bits of Chantry were raining down over the city.”

“Is the moral of this story ‘everyone who helps people is secretly a terrorist’, or am I missing something?”

“No, nothing that blunt,” he smirks, though there's no mirth in his eyes. “It's just that you're right. People vanish, life goes on. A Chantry blows up and life goes on. A Breach opens up in the sky, spilling demons and Fade crap all over Thedas, and life goes on. The world just seems to have a funny way of ignoring all sorts of shit.”

I hum in response, plopping down in the snow next to him. “Nice way of putting it. You know, Varric, maybe you should consider going into writing. I hear it's reasonably profitable.”

“Very funny, Bluebird.”

“Wait,” I gasp, a shining idea formulating in my brain, “you're an _author._ ”

“Did you...not already know that? I do actually remember the Seeker talking about it.”

“ _And_ you're decent at lying to people,” I continue, a grin spreading from ear to ear.

“Now that's just hurtful,” the dwarf places a hand over his heart, wounded. “And to think, I shot a guy in the ballsack for you.”

“You did!” I crow, the glorious image of awkward one-balled sex making me burst into another fit of helpless giggling. “Hearing about that was honestly the first time I've really laughed since falling out of the Breach. Thank you.”

“All in a day’s work,” he winks, withdrawing the meaty kebab thing from the fire and blowing on it to cool it down. “Now, what's so important about my being a lying scoundrel of an author?

“Well, uh, I'd like to ask for a favor, and I'd like you to keep it to yourself regardless of whether you accept or decline.”

“Alright, call me intrigued,” he uses his teeth to tear a hunk of meat from the stick. “Whaddya need?”

I take a deep breath, looking him dead in the eye. “Can you teach me how to read?”

His dark eyes squint a little as he attempts to gauge my seriousness. “You're not pulling my leg, are you," he asks in a way that doesn't sound like a question.

“No. I genuinely do not know how to read or write in Trade, and I think that needs to be quickly remedied.”

“Why don't you talk to Ruffles about setting something up? I don't think I'm the best—”

“No, Varric. I can't. The advisors have enough on their plates without worrying about my illiteracy. I'm a fast learner, I swear. I've had to be.” _Also, because this is verbally English, the grammatical structure should be extremely similar, if not identical._ “Just basic Trade should be enough for me to get by with this whole Inquisition thing. Please, Varric?”

“Look,” he grimaces, “it's not necessarily that I don't want to, it's that I have no idea how to go about doing something like this. I wasn't exactly a tutor for the noble brats back in Kirkwall.”

“Okay,” I chew on part of my lip, trying not to be offended by being equated to a noble brat and nodding thoughtfully. “Well the first step with a new language is usually its alphabet.”

He peers at me sideways, sighs, and says, “Fine. Gimme a minute.” He returns with a few scraps of parchment, a container of ink, and a quill. “There are thirty-two symbols in Trade that can be combined in a bunch of different ways to make unique sounds…” He writes each of them out in ink, telling me what sounds they make, and allows me to copy them in my _much_ sloppier handwriting. Varric chuckles when I smear ink across the parchment yet again, saying, “You write like you've never held a quill before.” Seeing the flat look I give him, his grin fades a little, “Oh yeah.”

Within half an hour, I've gotten the hang of writing my name, basic pronouns, a plethora of color words, some animals, and two or three simple pleasantries. “Do you mind if we continue doing this? I'll try not to take up too much of your time.”

“Half an hour a day? I might be able to manage that,” Varric smiles in a roguish manner. “But this doesn't seem like a fair deal. What do I get out of it?”

_Shit. How could I have forgotten about payment?_

“Oh,” I purse my lips, pretending to pout. “Is the ecstatic pleasure that comes with being in my presence not good enough?”

“That much of my time should _at least_ be worth a mug of ale.”

“Per day or per week?” I ask, already fishing through my coin purse. It would eat through my money at drastically different rates depending on how he answers.

His eyebrows lift in shock. “What? No, I just meant one mug of ale.” Dropping his voice in a conspiratorial fashion, he continues, “though I’d be a fool to object to _more_ ale if you're offering.”

“Yeah, man. Anything you want, within reason. But are you sure? One mug of ale costs barely anything.” My objections fall on deaf ears.

“You had some good points, you know,” Varric shrugs. “The way I see it, you're about as close to the heart of all this weird shit as Reaver is, minus the glowy hand. Who knows what all is gonna happen? If you're that worried, I’ll teach you what I can.”

“Thank you, Varric,” I say, feeling a pleasant warmth in my chest.

“It's weird. I just wouldn't have pegged you as the illiterate type. You talk like you're well-read,” the dwarf frowns. “Really, I sorta thought you were some runaway noblewoman or something. Maybe a wealthy merchant's daughter.”

I roll my eyes, “Me, a member of nobility? That'll be the day.” _If a middle class person from a first world country is beyond wealthy compared to the rest of modern Earth, I guess I am basically noble here. Ew. Am I like the Thedosian equivalent of one of those gazillionaires with four yachts and nine sports cars?_

_Maybe not quite that extreme._

Varric hands me the parchment I've been working on, shaking his head. “I'm just saying. You're an odd one.”

My lips quirk up in a half smile. “What's wrong with being odd?”

“Nothing at all, Bluebird. Nothing at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short I'm sorry but the way I work if I make chapter length goals too high they just never get finished. On the plus side, chapter eighteen is gonna be pretty long.


	15. A Magical Development

I am scrawling a few notes in the margins of a page in one of the last chapters of the “informative” work by Bitte Enfoiré. It has taken me a week to slog through it, the utter ignorance of its own subject matter often infuriating enough for me to close the tome, take a few deep breaths, and correct the many _many_ errors printed in stiff and uninspired lettering. Periodically, when I could no longer stand the inordinate amount of frustration that accompanied the reading, I would leave my appointed accommodations either in search of other work or simply in an attempt to clear my mind. As of now, I am nearing the point of making such an escape.

I scan the next few sentences, my scowl deepening with each new word I read. _“For example, a Pride demon may, rarely, appear to you in the guise of a spirit of Wisdom. Do not believe such nonsense, as at its core it is a cruel beast. For what can excessive surety in one's own rightness lead to other than Pride? You must unmask these devious figments of the Fade, as they seek only to deceive and destroy.”_ I grit my teeth and close the book, not quite able to formulate thoughts coherent enough to produce civil annotations. _These shemlen are such ignorant fools! They refuse to better themselves, do not seek to understand truth! All they are capable of is running from what they do not comprehend!_

The light but firm rap of knuckles interrupts my furious scribbling. “Come in,” I snap, more curt than I likely ought to have been.

My door swings open a fraction, and a pair of inquisitive blue eyes peeks out from behind it. “Are you okay, Solas?” The rest of her body follows her head as she slips into my living space and onto my mattress.

“Ross?” I ask, folding the corner of my current page to mark it. “I had heard you had returned.” It is not that I had not sensed her aura outside my door, but that I had been so consumed with vengeful fact corrections that it had simply taken up a space in the background of my awareness. For a moment, I had actually forgotten that regularly feeling such energetic presences is no longer a normal occurrence. “I am glad to see you unharmed.”

She hums in acknowledgement, gaze fixated on the poorly written tome in my hands. “Do you always do that to your book pages?”

“Do what?”

“You know, dog-ear them instead of getting a bookmark. Sorry, I know it's kinda stupid. It's just sort of a pet peeve of mi- my friend's. She used to go on about it all the time.” A grimace contorts her expression, seeming more inwardly directed than anything.

“Dog-ear pages?” I roll the unfamiliar expression across my tongue. “Do you mean… folding the corner of the page? No, not always. It depends on how much I care about the book.”

She raises an amused brow at the overwhelming amount of folded and rumpled pages, lips quirking upward, “What've you got against that one, then? From the look of it, it's grievously offended you.”

I purse my lips, considering how to answer, though I seriously doubt it would be as offensive to the human as it is to me. “It is called _No Spirit is Harmless,_ written by  Bitte Enfoiré, and it _should_ offend anyone with even a basic knowledge of spirits or the Fade. Did you know that no spirit is trustworthy and all of them are simply waiting to morph into demons and attack dreamers when they least expect?”

She gapes at me, open-mouthed, jaw working to come up with an understandable response. “No spirit is _harmless?_ What is that supposed to mean? How would you explain Compassion or Hope? Spirits are only harmful if the people they're interacting with have harmful intentions! They're only _reflections_ of our emotion and intent, aren't they?”

Now it is I who lapses into momentary shock. _How does this quickling display a better understanding of spirits in a ten second outburst than most do in their whole lives?_ “How do you know this if you became a mage only recently? You should not have enough of a waking memory of interaction with spirits in order to be able to make such statements.”

Ross flushes bright pink, looking down at the floor. “I, uh, knew someone a while back who used to talk about spirits and stuff all the time. You two are really similar, actually.”

“And this person was a mage who spoke with spirits to a certain degree?”

“Yeah. He was,” she smiles a soft little smile, one that is usually reserved for inside jokes or private thoughts. “But why are you reading it if you know so much better than what that book is saying?”  

I shift, considering the question, “This was in the possession of a Templar who attended the Conclave, I have nothing much else to occupy my mind, and I thought that reading this might enlighten me as to other people's experiences with the Fade.”

“Oh,” her expression clears in understanding. “It's like how some people like to read things from the points of view of all sorts of different political or religious leanings so their world view isn't completely skewed one way or the other, right?”

“Yes,” I blink, wondering how far this woman's apparent level-headedness will go. _Is she Andrastian?_ “The lack of depth was not unsurprising, though still disappointing. It is a shame, really, when one realizes that tomes such as this are what have contributed to the Chantry’s tight grip over mages for so long.”

Ross' brow creases, “It's just, people generally read what they enjoy or what they want to learn, but you evidently aren't enjoying or learning anything from that book, so why torture yourself?” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and actually appears interested in my answer. 

I lightly clear my throat, rifling through the pages so she can see the newly inked additions to the tome. “I have been adding my own improvements.”

“Woah!” a bright grin dances across her lips. “That's actually really neat. Do you think you'd ever write some books of your own? The first-hand accounts of a Somniari would definitely turn a few heads.”

“I think that, were I to ever move forward with such a thing, I would wait until the Mage-Templar war has a clear victor. Publishing such a work might very well make me a target in the future.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Ross nods, and the conversation lulls into contemplative silence.

I turn fully to face her after a minute. “Is there any particular reason for your visit?”

“Oh, yeah!” Ross remembers, digging through her coin purse and withdrawing a bound roll of vellum. She wastes no time handing it to me. “Remember when I said that there was probably three other mages in Haven the other day? Turns out there's only two, and both of them are novices.”

I unroll the parchment “What bearing does this have on me?”

“Well,” she tugs absentmindedly at a loose ringlet of hair curling up by her ear, “just read it, I guess.”

“ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” I mumble under my breath, scanning the lines of flowing script. The Ambassador's handwriting, no doubt. The order reads, _“Solas, it has been brought to our attention that the former prisoner, Rosalind Clarke, has, through unusual circumstances, come into magical abilities. We ask that you do all possible to help her hone her skills and teach her to control her magic. A minimum of one hour daily should suffice for lessons. We apologize for springing such a responsibility upon you, but we must all contribute everything we have if we are to get through this trying time. Signed~ Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition.”_

“Rosalind?” I murmur, tracing a finger over the ink. _Of all things, that is what catches my eye._

She shrugs. “That's my name. Don't wear it out.”

“Is there a reason you introduced yourself as Ross?”

“They both work just the same. I don't actually have a preference. It's just what most others have used in the past.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “I also answer to Smart-Ass, Dumb-Ass, Jackass, Asshole, and most other insults that include the word ass if neither of those are good for you.”

I raise a sardonic brow. “I believe I shall limit myself to your given names.” _She seems to be well-versed in self-deprecation._

“So? What's up with that?” she jerks her chin toward the letter in my hands.

I sigh. “It seems that I have been appointed your new magical instructor.” _This has the potential to make for a number of setbacks when it comes to planning, but an hour a day is not a completely obscene amount of time. Besides, this may be an excellent opening to continue building trust with those currently in power here._

“Well, yeah,” she gives off the impression that she already knew this. “Does it talk about anything else?”

“Not particularly, no. Did you happen to do something to warrant such immediate action, or is this simple paranoia on their part?”

Rosalind scratches at a spot behind her ear, grinning self-consciously. “Other than nearly incinerating Chancellor Roderick? Nothing comes to mind.”

“You seem remarkably unconcerned by that fact,” I note.

“Because _nearly_ was the operative word there," she fires back, eyebrows wiggling. "You should have seen the look on his stupid face. It was magnificent.”

I chuckle, imagining how such an event night have taken place, “this ordinance requests that I focus on teaching you to control your power. For now, however, I wish to be alone.”

“Oh,” she stops, halfway through the process of settling into a more comfortable position on my mattress. “Yeah, sure. Um, is there a specific time you want me here?”

“After most of the village breaks for luncheon, meet me outside, past the new training grounds.”

“Wait,” her brow scrunches up, “like, past the stables along the walls, or by Master Taigen's old home?”

“The latter area should be more suitable,” I decide. “You should know, I doubt I will be able to get my hands on any accurate books over magical theory any time soon, not that that is necessarily a bad thing. We will simply have to employ more unconventional schooling tactics.”

“I've got no problem with that. Should keep me more engaged, anyway,” Rosalind removes herself from my bed and strides to my door, waving, “Have fun with that shitty excuse for a book, Solas.”

When she is gone, I look down at the leather bound pages in my hands, considering the voluntary continuation of such a grueling mental task. Instead, I find a loose leaf of parchment, refill the ink in my quill, and begin sketching out the details of what I wish to accomplish with Rosalind tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yesterday Mike Laidlaw announced he'd be leaving the Bioware team after fourteen years?


	16. Aurange you Glad I Didn't say Banana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, I'm not dead!

I scribble a few shaky symbols across scraps of parchment with a quill and ink I talked Josie into letting me borrow. We met earlier and she suggested I continue my work with Adan on top of my new compulsory attendance of magical lessons taught by Solas, considering my method of escaping the Templars. I'm only too eager to agree. Any advantage I can get, I'll take it. I sort of have to in this world.

It may get a little difficult trying to balance those things with Varric's reading lessons and, more recently, Leliana's request that I begin combat training. However, I won't have to worry about those for a few more days as least. When it comes to the reading, I'm not necessarily putting it on the back-burner, but it's not quite as difficult as I anticipated it would be. I already know how to speak the language, and that's half the battle won already. It's more a matter of phonetic rules and how certain symbols change when these specific ones are in a row to make this new sound and so on and so forth.

Okay, maybe I'm just a _teensy_ bit frustrated that I can't write eloquently worded essays or meticulous lab reports just yet, but I'll keep working on it.

For now, I clean up the apothecary's station, putting lids on jars of salve and replacing a few curling violet leaves in a wooden container. It's noon, lunch break, and that means training time with Solas. Jitters of anticipation shiver through me as I make my way to Taigen’s home. I am so wrapped up in fantasies of speaking with spirits and conjuring barriers that I can almost forget my previous encounter on this same path not too long ago.

 _Almost_ being the operative word. Despite my attempts to distract myself, my grip is tight around the hilt of the dagger at my hip. It is worn leather wrapped around a steel core, already a familiar object. The knowledge that I have something with which to defend myself, to fight back, is a comfort in and of itself. I pass the frozen lake, icy fractals glittering with the light from the sun above. A small sigh escapes me in the form of a plume of white breath. I am still not used to this level of cold. I don't know if I ever will be. There's a certain charm to it, I suppose, though I prefer the pleasant heat of summer days or cool dry windiness of fall.

I pass between the ice covered outcroppings of rock into full view of Taigen's cottage, shivering. There aren't any lights on that I can see. “Solas?” I call out tentatively. “Are you in there, or am I technically talking to myself?”

“I am here,” the elf’s melodic lilting carries from inside the house, muffled by the walls.

I exhale in relief, pushing through the door to see Solas rifling through pages of notes scrawled in a messy hand. His back is turned to me. “Hey,” I greet him, at a loss for what else to say. “How's it going?”

“You did not sense me from outside.” Solas says, discarding the papers and facing me.

“No…?” I respond, trailing into a hesitant question. “The lights were off, and you're not exactly throwing a frat party in here.”

“You should have,” his brow furrows. “I am not attempting to conceal my aura.”

My confusion clears. “Right. Um, how exactly would I even go about sensing an aura?”

Solas’ eyes widen infinitesimally. “Of course. Forgive me. Sit there and close your eyes. Make sure you cannot see anything,” he orders, pointing at a wicker chair pushed against a desk.

“Okay,” I tug the chair out enough so I can slide into it, straddling the seat and folding my arms over the top of its back. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tuck my head into the crooks of my elbows. The world is as dark as it will get. “I'm blind now.”

“Excellent,” he murmurs. “Now, recall how you have conjured fire in the past. Remember how it felt, the paths your mind took in shaping the world around you.” 

If Stanley was good at talking me through accessing my magic, Solas is brilliant. It's the voice, man. That _voice_. It is no time at all before my hands are engulfed in flames. I move them away from the wicker chair, watching them flicker and furl around my fingers. Now, they no longer make me jump or jerk abruptly away.

“You opened your eyes.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it is alright for now,” Solas sighs. “You see?” he says, my magical fire having a pleasant warming effect on his expression. “This amber glow over your skin. That is your aura.”  

“Huh.” _So that's what that shiny magic looking stuff is._ “What color is your aura, then?”

A small smirk plays over his lips. “Close your eyes and keep them that way, please.”

“What an excessively long and sentence-like color name. I don't think I've heard of it before.”

“Do you wish to receive instruction or not?”

“Fine,” I grin lopsidedly, closing my eyes. “Now what?”

“I want you to extend your awareness outward. Reach into every nook and cranny of this space, and attempt to deduce things about my aura and what I am doing.”

“So it's magical echolocation? Sounds neat.”

“Echo...location?” Solas repeats, experimenting with the unusual word.

“Yeah,” I say, flippant. I don't think I'll be elaborating any further on the concept. “So I just pretend like I'm making fire but just don't make fire, right?”

“That is a simplified explanation of what I am requesting, but yes.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Cool.” I say before falling silent. I'm not quite sure what extending my awareness means, so I settle for just trying to use my regular senses. I hear Solas’s feet softly padding across the damp stone floor, at first coming closer to me, but then slowly veering away. “So you're in the other room now, right?” I enunciate as clearly as possible, muffled as I am by my folded arms.

“Yes, I am,” Solas responds. “Describe my aura as you perceive it, if you would.”

I hum uncertainly, “It might help if I knew what I was looking for.”

“That is for you to tell me, not the other way around.”

“I can't see anything, Solas,” I insist. Although that's not entirely true. I can sense the flicker of a few candles behind my eyelids, as well as the blaze of a torch in its wall sconce. Somehow, I don't think that's what he's going for.

“Perhaps seeing is the wrong way of thinking about it,” the Elvhen man suggests. “It is more a matter of feeling than sight.”

“Uh huh,” I say, wishing he could see my rolling eyes. _How should I go about feeling an aura, then?_

_Rosalind, he probably made you conjure your own aura earlier for a reason. Maybe focus on that feeling of magic emanating from something, right? Like, for you it's a gold-amberish color, very fire magey if I do say so myself._

_I get what you're saying. He's a spirit/rift mage person so his aura should reflect that, right?_

_Not only that, but we've seen his real magic before. The Breach, the Anchor, that's all his sweet sweet lime green Fen'Harel goodness._

_I guess that's a decent enough basis to go off of as any._ Inhaling deeply, I concentrate on thoughts of the rifts, the Breach, Solas himself. I remember his crisp barriers washing over me in battle. Gradually, I become aware of a presence residing at the same approximate location of Solas’ voice earlier. “Your aura has this sort of cool feeling, like mint and elfroot and a brisk breeze.”

“Interesting,” Solas murmurs. “What about now?” The presence— _aura_ —shifts into something with flickery warmer tones.

“Are you—are you doing a fire spell?” I ask, opening my eyes. My lips part in a grin as I see the flames hovering over his palms. “That's actually really amazing.”

Solas doesn't seem particularly irritated that I've opened my eyes without permission for the second time. “Thank you.” His aura doesn't disappear or fade away with my newfound sight. There are little dimples forming around that self-satisfied smirk of his and _ah hell my cheeks are burning._ _Goddamn useless capillaries._

Coughing nervously, I ask, “So, what's next?”

Solas tilts his head, “can you currently see your own aura?”

I look at my own arms; they've lost their amber luster. “No.”

“That is what we will continue to work on, if you are amenable. I would like you to always be able to sense other mages. It could prove an invaluable skill.”

“Okay,” I agree, brightening. Being able to locate other mages does sound pretty useful.

“Let us continue then.”

 

* * *

 

By the end of the lesson, which has dragged on well past the intended hour, I’m able to maintain the visibility of my aura as well as Solas’ for considerable lengths with decreasing amounts of needed focus. “Do you want to get something to eat, Solas? I'm starving.”

His brows raise in surprise. “A hot meal would be welcome.”

“Come on, then,” I hold the door open for him, falling into step with his relaxed stride. The walk and following meal pass quickly, and soon it is time for us to attend to our own business.

Offering nothing more than a slight wave and nod of acknowledgement to each other, we go our separate ways.

_This might not actually be so bad._

 


	17. The Herald's Handmaiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely did not post this in an effort to put off reading my history textbook. Nope. Not at all.

I swing by me and Kaaras’ place, grab my second dagger, and sling the bow quiver over my shoulder before I go hunting through the village. I remember that in-game Leliana usually hangs out around that one tent that's just outside the Chantry. That makes for a logical first stop, I suppose.

I've only just started in that direction when a strange voice warbles from behind me, “My lady?” The only other people around are a few soldiers laughing over a game of dice, a surly shopkeeper, and an absent-minded Chantry sister: no one that might be referred to as a lady in the noble sense of the word. A sinking feeling in my stomach prompts me to turn around. There's Reya standing next to a vaguely familiar blonde elf. The reverentially downturned cast of the blonde woman's head just validates my instincts. _Do people actually think I'm on par with nobility here, or am I reading too much into this? Maybe she's just being polite._

“Miss Rosalind,” Reya clears her throat. After much discussion, I had finally convinced Reya to stop calling me lady or mistress. It seems I might have to start from scratch with this new woman. “This is Tami. She wanted to speak with you but was nervous about approaching you earlier.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I shift awkwardly from foot to foot, fidgeting with the strap of the bow quiver. “Is there something you need?”

“Yes, my lady,” Tami flushes, the tips of her ears turning scarlet. “It's just, I, er, um, I wantedtothankyoufergettinridothagoodfornothinwanker.”

“Would you mind running that by me again?” I ask, furrowing my brows. “I didn't quite catch that.”

“Well, you see, my lady. I was—I mean—when you, ah, intervened between me and that _pig,_ I just didn't think anyone would care, my being an elf and all. ‘Specially not a _human._ Not that there's anything wrong with humans, of course,” she backpedals, turning a deeper shade of red with every word. _“_ ‘It's just, well, the Handmaiden herself helped _me_? I didn't know who you were at first, and afterward I just couldn't believe it. Couldn't think how to thank ya properly, so I helped get together that basket of ladies essentials and then you were gone and I knew it was _his_ fault. And— And—” her breaths are more gasps than anything.

“Woah, hey, hey,” I take her hand, squeezing it comfortingly. _This is the elf from that night. She's talking about Dirk._ “You're alright, right? He's gone, and you're here. We're all here and safe and sound and it's cold and you're free to move around, see? Nothing's confining you.” Then something clicks inside my head. “Handmaiden? What do you mean?”

She blinks once at me, then swivels toward Reya to explain. The brunette sighs. “Miss, it wasn't just the four of us around when you brought Enril back from the Maker's bosom. Word spread about it. Then you were absconded with by those Templars, but you made it _back_ and with nary a scrape to show for it. Not everyone believes the bit about Enril, exactly, but you've also been patchin’ people up a good deal. Herald's the Herald, so why shouldn't you have a title? The Herald's Handmaiden, that's what they're calling you.”

 _What. No. No. No. No._ “A religious title? But I'm not even—” I cut myself off at their puzzled expressions, sighing. “Guess there's no helping it, is there? If I told you I'm not actually divine or noble or even particularly noteworthy on the cosmic scale, would you care? Would that actually change how you view me?” _Probably not. If a mage, qunari, dwarf, Dalish elf, or otherwise non-Andrastian is the Inquisitor, people don't care about how calling them the Herald might affect them. No one takes their personal beliefs into account. Why should they pay attention to mine?_

Reya shrugs, “you saved my brother's life, miss, and that's about as divine as I need. I've a debt to you I don’ know if I'll ever be able to repay, but it won't stop me from trying.”

“And you preserved my dignity,” Tami adds, wringing her hands in her apron. “Wouldn't have had a shred left for a long while if you'd not stepped in that night.”

“Those things mean more to people than what some pompous rich man is doing halfway across the country. Being noble's not just a title with you, nor with Lady Cassandra or Lady Josephine. You're a decent lot,” Reya continues, eyes not quite meeting mine, but not staring at the snow beneath our feet either.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not quite having thought of it that way before. After a beat of silence, I tilt my head to the side. “Was there anything else you wanted to speak about, Tami?”

“Oh, no, that was all,” Tami sketches a quick curtsey, snatching up Reya’s hand and all but dragging the elven woman away. “Thank you again, my lady!”

“I'm here if you need me,” I mumble into the now vacant space where they'd stood moments before.Trying to ignore the feeling of intense discomfort curling up in my stomach, I slowly continue through the village.

* * *

 

This woman, Ross, Rosalind, or the Herald's Handmaiden, as it may be, is puzzling. Over the next few weeks our lessons continue. She learns quickly, obviously fascinated with the concepts I am teaching her even though they are extremely simple: heating water and soothing headaches and making sparks dance between her fingers. In her spare moments, she carefully traces symbols across spare leaves of parchment: scatterbrained and seemingly unrelated words such as _candelabra, microscope, knuckle, chaste,_ and _sheer._ When I ask her about them, as I suspect it may be a kind of cipher, she just grins enigmatically and winks, saying something about how she needs to maintain an aura of mystery. Aura of confusion might be a more apt description.

That is how she responds to many questions, outright refusing to elaborate on her background purely on the basis of “making life just a little bit spicier” for other people. The qunari woman and Varric have mostly come to accept her eccentricities, at least on a surface level, though I believe that Leliana and the ambassador are sending out feelers in an effort to learn more about her. However, Rosalind is not their priority. Securing Inquisition allies and corresponding with the Chantry are where their interests lie.

I cannot blame them. The Inquisition as it stands does not have the resources to squander on the investigation of a single relatively harmless person. The efforts of my own agents are being directed toward the infiltration and gathering of information on Corypheus’ activities, or anything else of major importance. That is not to say that this strange human is not of interest. This strange _strange_ human who does not shy away from elves purely for being elves, does not blindly follow Chantry vitriol, does not look down at me for my alleged apostasy.

This curiosity needs to be laid to rest for my own clarity of mind. The flurry of questions I have surrounding her require answering before I can return my focus to what is actually important.

That reasoning is why, when I encounter Rosalind's warm presence quietly adrift in the Fade one night, I hesitate only a moment before slipping into her dream.


	18. Sleepwalking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. I appreciate every comment, every kudos, every bookmark. I didn't actually think this story would be that popular but I'm glad you all seem to enjoy it!

It takes a small amount of pushing to enter the human woman's dream. The warm barrier around her consciousness gives way slowly, soothing muscles I had not even realized were stiff. This is strange, all things considered, because the Fade should have nothing akin to physical effects on a residual manifestation of my mind. Regardless, a small sigh escapes me before I fully process what has occurred.

Sunbeams, pale gold and shining, filter downward in radiant slants of light. The trees sway, branches that arch overhead rustle gently in the wind. A pleasantly cool breeze kisses my skin and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation. It is so drastically different from the stinging gusts of frigid air so prevalent in the Frostbacks. I take the time to transform into the less obvious form of a white wolf before I actually encounter Rosalind. It would not do for information gathering purposes if she knew it was I following her through her dreams.

_And how do you know she would not have given you this information of her own free will?_

_She has proven her unwillingness to answer personal questions thus far._

_And you have not? She has not resorted to such underhanded tactics to glean your secrets, old wolf. Does reluctance to speak of the past warrant this breach of privacy?_

_The only reason she does not employ dream walking as a form of information gathering is because she is incapable of doing so. Something is extremely off-putting about her and I intend to learn more._

My fur ruffles as I shake my head from side to side, padding softly through the not quite silent forest. There are birds chirping above me, squirrels leaping from branch to branch, and the screeching buzz of a strange insect up in the trees. Not too much farther in the distance I hear the burbling of a river. As the forest seems to further solidify the more I head in that direction, I conclude that that must be where Rosalind is located.

Leaves crunch beneath my paws as I pass over them. Wooden posts appear, an arched railing connecting them. I lift my nose to the air, sniffing. There is a scent, dark and warm and strong with a hint of sweet vanilla that draws me toward the wooden structure. It is a small bridge, spanning across a rushing creek. Cautiously, I approach it; my claws scrape quietly against the well-trodden boards. Vines twine around the wood, splitting the wooden boards apart in some places. Horn-shaped flowers sprout from the green tendrils, a soft orange hue, and they perfume the air with their equally soft fragrance. _Could they be some variant of Crystal Grace?_

More important than flower names, I cannot locate Rosalind. The scent I followed to this location is strong. I should be practically on top of her. _Or, perhaps, simply above her? This is a bridge after all._ I stick my head beneath the wooden railing, peering down at the river below. This proves to be the correct assumption, as she sits on a natural slab of rock overlooking the rushing water, cross-legged, with feet that are bare and slick with black river mud.

The skin that is visible from my perch, and there is rather a lot of it, is moist with a sheen of sweat. Her chest slowly rises and falls against the dark fabric of her sleeveless shirt, one arm fully covered in swirling stars and bursts of color, the other adorned with artistic caricatures of people and strange creatures. _Tattoos? Where could she have gotten ones as intricate as those?_ A ceramic mug rests on the rock next to her, steam gently spiralling upward in transparent wisps of warmth. This close, the faint sounds of pan flutes and string instruments seem to emanate from the trees above. Exhaling slightly, I move out of Rosalind's line of sight and lie down, placing my head on top of my paws. This is certainly a relaxing atmosphere, though I have my doubts as to how much information might be revealed in such a mundane dreamscape.

As I watch, however, a trio of glowing orbs, fiery orange, blushing pink, and electric blue respectively, materialize further downstream. They bob and weave around each other in a playful manner. _Spirits taking their raw forms in a mortal’s dream? That is extremely dangerous. And those: Cheer, Clarity, and Guidance, they could become corrupted so easily—turn to Denial, Uncertainty, and Domination._ They do not stay orbs of energy for long, morphing into people that are presumably important to Ross: Cheer becomes a pale girl with dimples and a cheeky grin, Clarity is a lanky youth with smooth, neatly cut black hair, and Guidance transforms into a middle-aged man sporting a beard already threaded through with silver.

The spirits approach the human woman and I tense, prepared to intervene. Clarity’s dark eyes find mine, gleaming with purpose. _Do not. She is safe for us. She has plucked this forest from her memories for a reason, Fen’Harel._

A low rumble sounds from deep within my chest as I dip my head, content to wait and observe if the spirits do not feel threatened. I sit once more, pondering the human woman as she opens her eyes and strikes up a pleasant conversation with the three of them. Her body is relaxed; a warm smile softens her features. _I...see._ _This place calms her so that she might speak without fear of overpowering them with her emotions._

Cheer flounces about, giggling as it pulls Rosalind to her feet. “Come on, Ross, let's go somewhere fun!”

“What, you don't find the intricacies of a deciduous forest's ecosystem fun?” Rosalind laughs, breathless.

“If you enjoy it, then I will too. But I just _really_ wanna see rollercoasters and movie marathons and coffee shops and board games and musicals and there's just _so much_ , ya know?”

“Yeah, believe me, I know. We can go exploring later, if you want. It's just, I mean, it's been pretty crazy lately.”

Cheer shrugs, looking out across the river. “If you're happy sitting on a rock staring at running water, then I'm happy.”

“Yeah,” Rosalind agrees, looping her arm through Cheer's. “The girl you're emulating was always that way too. I loved most everything about her, even when she would drink sweet tea by the gallon and dip her french fries in mayonnaise.” Her tone takes on a degree of wistfulness, missing what was and what may never be again. A part of me twinges as I recognize a similar ache in her as the one in myself.

Guidance rests a hand on Rosalind's shoulder. She tenses for a split second, not looking at the spirit. “It might not be that bad. They're still out there, honey, living their lives, clinging to a rock hurtling through the empty void of space at unimaginable speeds. Don't get so hung up on losing them that you go blind to what's around you.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Would you prefer I take a different form?”

“If it won't adversely affect you,” I see her nod shakily. “It might be easier for me to concentrate. There are too many, um, emotions, when it comes to my dad.”

“Is this any better?” Guidance asks, having morphed into a short wrinkled woman with greying hair.

“Doctor Powell?” Rosalind’s words curl up in a question, clearly surprised. “Interesting choice. You’re still Guidance, right?”

“Indeed,” the spirit inclines its head.

“Hmm,” she makes a curious noise. “Was there anything in particular any of you wanted to discuss?”

Clarity speaks up, cocking its head to the side. “Why is it that you feel so drawn here? You spent little time outdoors as a child, correct? Would curling up with a book and a blanket not be more comforting to you?”

Ross shrugs, lowering her feet into the water and scrubbing off the black silt. “In high school, after all my theatre friends—no, they were closer to being my family—had graduated, I found myself with this big gap in my life, you know? AP classes were stressful, and my parents didn't want me getting a job so I could focus on staying top five. Imminent poverty looming on the horizon was fucking terrifying, so I started spending time alone by this bridge in the woods doing my homework, just to get out of my house. It's easy to forget other people's expectations when you're so far removed from civilization.”

_High school? AP classes? Is this an alternative terminology for an education at a university? Her parents must have been wealthy to be able to send her to an educational facility, perhaps merchants or lower ranked nobility. But, if that was the case, why was she concerned about imminent poverty? Did her family face financial troubles? Why send a daughter to a school if it would ruin the lives of the whole household?_

“What is this?” Cheer abruptly interjects, staring at the still steaming ceramic mug with obvious fascination.

“Coffee.”

“What is coffee? Does it hold emotional value to you?” The spirit's eyes light up. “Does coffee make you happy?”

“I guess. My mom practically made herself a carafe of the stuff every morning. It's _supposed_ to wake you up, but it's never worked on me. I just like it for the taste.”

“I see,” the spirit's eyes are round as saucers now. “And what does this _coffee_ taste like?”

“Well, it depends. Sometimes I put flavored creamers in it and other times I drink it black. Black coffee is rich and extremely bitter, about fifty times moreso than black tea.”

“Can I try it?” Cheer asks, looking hopeful.

“Go ahead,” Rosalind waves a hand, granting permission.

Cheer eagerly brings the cup to her lips, taking a large gulp of it. She hums in quiet pleasure. “There seem to be many pleasant memories of yours involving coffee, but then there are those of you sitting in the dark with tear stained cheeks and eyes dry from staring at a screen.” Raising the mug up, she says, “I do not know how you feel about this.”

“It wasn't too hot for you?” Ross queries, dancing away from the question.

“Too hot?” Cheer's brow furrows in confusion. “Why would the coffee's temperature affect me?”

“Never mind,” the human woman shakes her head, chuckling softly. “Hey, Cheer, do ya wanna help me find some snapping turtles? They’re usually sunbathing on the shore further downstream by this time of day.”

“Alright,” the spirit nods, skipping along behind Rosalind. The other two spirits glide away after them.

My ears twitch toward their receding voices, but I do not follow. Instead, I return to the boundaries of the dream, melding through the barrier and into a bland dreamscape of my own. I have not come from this reconnaissance mission empty-handed. I now know Rosalind has received an education, though I had already assumed as much. She is far more aware of the true nature of spirits than she lets on, though how she would have learned anything close to truth about them in a world such as this is beyond me.

On a slightly less relevant topic, she appears to have a penchant for bitter drinks, allegedly worse than tea. The idea of such a beverage puts a sour taste in my mouth, and I make a mental note to never accept a drink from her before assessing its contents.

I wonder briefly if the unpleasantness in the back of my head might have something to do with invading the private mental sanctum of one of the few _shemlen_ who have displayed kindness toward those usually thought of as lesser.

 _But that is impossible. She must have an ulterior motive behind her actions. She is obviously clever for a_ shemlen _, educated, and she was apparently in a theatrical troupe for a portion of her life. I cannot allow my guard to slip._

Still, even as I blink away the disorientation of waking, I cannot fully believe that she was acting when she breathed life back into Enril, when she had her head slammed into a barrel, when she asks me about the intricacies of some spell or another.

I shake my head, refusing to allow that train of thought any more leeway. Interesting or not, Rosalind Clarke, the Herald's Handmaiden, is becoming a distraction.


	19. In which Rosalind slips into Spanish just because she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I wrote three thousand words on chapter twenty three of this instead of working on my four projects due the day we get back from break but oh well.
> 
> I would also like it to be known that I use my own Spanish vocabulary to supplement Ross' bilingualism. I feel like it adds some realism to have limitations as to what she can say as well as possible grammatical errors.

I wake up warmed by a bundle of furs, content after spending the better part of a dreamy afternoon watching turtles with the spirits who have taken to visiting me every few nights.  _ Should I talk to Solas about them? _

_ Do you want him asking questions about this? _

_ Is him being suspicious about my open-mindedness more important than the safety of those spirits? Is that what your argument is? _

_ Okay, that's a valid point. I'll ask during my magic lesson later today, then. _

Kaaras stands near the hearth, removing an iron kettle from the fire. It's a strange sight: the normally towering horned woman bending halfway over to pour tea into mismatched mugs, hands wrapped in a dirty towel to shield herself from the heat. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she takes care not to spill it onto the table.

“Morning,” I whisper to the qunari, voice still raspy from sleep. “You're up early.” Usually, when I leave our shared quarters for the day, she's still snoring on her mattress. She asked me if I was bothered by it once, but I easily dismissed her worry. I've slept through Hurricanes Allison and Ike, plus twenty two American fourth of July's; I can handle a bit of night noise.

“That I am,” Kaaras agrees, stifling a yawn. “Leliana called a meeting in the War Room before the break of dawn and she asked me to be there.’

“Really?” My eyebrows shoot up. Kaaras hadn't been involved with a War Room meeting since the day I'd come back. “What did you guys talk about?”

“Well,” Kaaras begins, handing me a mug of tea. “The Chantry isn't overly fond of the little organization we've got going here, particularly the qunari and human women the people have started to think of as religious icons. Not really all that surprising.” She sighs. “They want me to go to the Hinterlands and hunt down some Chantry mother. Giselle, I think they said her name was.”

“Took them long enough,” I hum, not awake enough to bother feigning surprise. “When are you planning on leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning,” she takes a deep gulp of tea, draining half the mug in one go. “Cassandra, Varric, and Solas are coming with me.”

“Aw, what? I'm not cool enough to join the party?”

She narrows her violet eyes in consideration. “Do you actually want to come? It'll be dangerous. Active war zones aren't for the faint of heart.”

“Sure. If you don't mind the company.”

_ She just gave you a free out and you just blew it off? What? Why? _

_ Listen, it's too late to back out now. _

_ You might have to kill someone. A lot of someones. _

_ I—that's a valid point, but how is it any different from killing demons, really? You've dissected a shit ton of animals, anyway. It's fine. You'll be fine. You're always fine. _

“I don't mind at all, no. At the very least, the refugees at the crossroads should have use for an herbalist. Speaking of, how are lessons with Solas coming along?”

“I'm good. Fine. It's really interesting, actually. The other day we were talking about the theoretical applications of dream walking to gather information from surveillance targets. It might be a feasible tactic, were there a relatively large amount of Somniari. As it stands now, however, dreamwalkers are few and far between so it's not very worthwhile. We were also talking about being able to transfer energy from one mage to another and its potential dangers—I'll stop talking now.”

Kaaras snorts softly, pleased with the change of subject. “And combat training with Leliana?”

My face flushes as I slip from my mattress and begin to wiggle into my trousers. “Yeah, um, I'd rather not talk about all the times I've been knocked on my ass in the past few days, thanks. Honestly, I think my tailbone might be permanently bruised.”

The qunari's lips curl up slightly. “During our fighting with the demons, I  _ had _ noticed you tend to leave your left flank open to attack.”

I laugh, hand instinctively falling to my still tender rib cage. “Believe me, Leliana has made sure I've learned from _ that _ mistake. Demons are scary as shit, yeah, but they're generally pretty disoriented if they're coming out of a rift for the first time. It's hard for them to adjust to the real world. Humans don't exactly have that disadvantage.”

“You sure you've learned from your mistakes?” Kaaras raises her eyebrows. I leap backward a second too late to avoid the wooden spoon she whacks against my side.

“Ow,” I hiss, poking at what would surely be a welt in a few hours. “What was that for?”

“Always be ready for a knife in the dark,” the lavender-skinned woman says, grim. “If you would like to come along, I won't stop you, Ross. Just be prepared for things to go very wrong very quickly. It usually does where mages and Templars are concerned.”

“Constant vigilance, Potter. Constant vigilance,” I mutter under my breath, wrapping my dagger belt around my waist and waving to a faintly confused Kaaras as I slip out the door. My shirt is rumpled and untucked and my breath has smelled better, but I power onward. At least I have the good sense to rake my fingers through the knots in my hair a few times before I knock on Solas’ door.

“Come in, Rosalind,” the elf calls from inside.

I enter, temporarily distracted, “how did you know it was me?”

He arches an eyebrow, giving me an equally arch look. “Rosalind, what have we been working on for the past two and a half weeks?”

“Aura, right. I knew that,” I let the pleasant warmth of magic wash over me. “Sorry,” a sheepish grin spreads across my face. Seeing Solas’ crisp green and my own amber glow, I wonder, not for the first time, how people go through life without being able to sense them. Just in my small timeframe of experimentation, I've figured out that you can sense more than magic when it comes to an aura. There's a degree of emotional influence as well, acting as an undercurrent to the Fade stuff. Anger is like molten hot iron being hammered over and over and _ over _ again. Calm is the soft pattering of night rain on the roof.

“A potential enemy would not care how tired you were before he attacked,” Solas reprimands, more harsh than usual.

“Well of course I'd be on the lookout for enemy mages when we go to the Hinterlands and stuff, but you're the only skilled mage around and I sincerely doubt you would try to hurt me.”

_ Forgot the whole bit about tearing the Veil and burning the world down, have you? _

_ Mmkay. Let me rephrase that. Undercover apostate Solas wouldn't try to hurt me. At least, so long as he has no reason to. _

His eyes widen a fraction, lips parting ever so slightly. Another second later, his expression is shuttered once more. “That does not excuse such foolhardiness.”

“ _ Ir abelas, ha’hren,”  _ I dip my head, trying my best to physically ooze respectfulness.

The tips of Solas’ ears turn pink at the  _ ha’hren. _ He waves my apology away. “Do not be. Just learn from your errors before they result in a mistake you may come to regret.” He sighs, turning away. “Otherwise, is there something you require of me?”

A small huff of air escapes me.  _ Does he actually hear the shit he says, or is he just intentionally hypocritical?  _ “Yeah. In my dreams, um, in the Fade—” I trail off as Solas’ spine stiffens. I don't miss the quick, almost anxious glance he sends in my direction. “I get visitors.”

“Visitors?” the older elf questions, an unidentifiable gleam in his eye.

“Yeah,” my gaze drifts around the room, latching onto an interesting whorl in the wood grain of a wall slat. “Spirits. Mostly the same three. I, um, I’ve been trying to provide a calm environment for them because I don't want to influence them emotionally, but I think it might help if I knew exactly what causes spirit corruption.”

Solas blinks once. Twice. He clears his throat. “Spirit corruption is usually the result of fear and expectation, of forcing the spirit to behave in a manner incompatible with their nature. As long as you are aware and content to listen and learn, even spirits like Rage or Desire can become conversational partners.”

“So, I could do things that involve adrenaline rushes and heightened emotional states and that wouldn't do anything in and of itself?”

“Adrenaline rushes?”

_ Stupid Rosalind and her stupid scientific terminology oh my sweet Fen’Harel you need to learn how to shut the hell up. _

“You know when you're in the middle of battle and you get a burst of energy and the world feels like it's slowing down around you? That's adrenaline, also known as epinephrine.”

“Hmm. Yes,” he drags the syllable out a little longer than it should be, as though he himself isn't totally certain of his answer, “so long as you make no transformative demands of it.”

“Alright then,” I dip my head, satisfied. “ _Hasta luego_ , _maestro._ _Yo necesito cambiar la ropa y cepillarme el pelo también._ ”

“What language is that?” he asks in the same tone he'd used when he wanted to know about CPR.

“Oh, you know, one of them.” l wink, cheerful. “ _ Nos vemos, huevo _ .” I close the door behind me and hurry away, already anticipating the pail of boiling hot water I'd use to bathe before I change into today's clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hasta luego, maestro- Until next time, teacher/master
> 
> Yo necesito cambiar la ropa y cepillarme el pelo también- I need to change clothes and brush my hair, too. 
> 
> Nos vemos, huevo.- See you later, egg.


	20. Too Late, my Time has Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some violence starting with the paragraph "I look away a moment before Varric," and ending at the last few lines.

I barely sleep at all in anticipation of journeying to the Hinterlands in the morning. One of the soldiers knocks firmly on our door before light has even started the process of filtering through the door cracks and slanting across the floorboards. “Herald? Handmaiden? Are you awake?”

“No,” I call out loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough to wake Kaaras. Though, to be fair, it would take a screaming army bearing down on the village to wake Kaaras.

“The lady Cassandra requests your presence by the gates within half an hour. I believe the lot of you are set to depart to the Hinterlands?” the guard continues, thoroughly unamused, but not angry. Who would want to risk irritating their Maker-sent _saviors_ , after all?

_This whole situation is just sorta fucked, isn't it?_

_Mm hmm._

“Thank you, serah,” I respond, rolling off of my mattress.

“You are very welcome, Handmaiden,” his reply floats through the wall.

A lazy grin spreads across my face as I consider the snoring qunari burrowing deeper into her blankets. “Heeeeeeey, Kaaaaaras,” I sing-song, settling on the edge of her mattress, “time to get uuuuup.”

“Mmph,” she rolls over, curling in on herself.

“Wakey wakey eggs and bakey,” I reach over, gently shaking her shoulder.

“We'f talked abou’ this,” she grumbles into her pillow. “If the sun isn’a up, neither 'm I.

“How do you know the sun isn't up?” I chuckle, sliding off her bed in search of clothes.

“I always know,” a violet eye cracks open to glare at me. “I also know, or would at least like to _think_ , that you'd only wake me before dawn for an extremely good reason.”

“Yep,” I agree, snatching up a pair of the massive woman's trousers and hurling them at her horned head. “Up and at 'em, rise and shine, because we gotta be at the gates in half an hour and I ain't leavin’ without breakfast.”

“Oh, shit! Hinterlands?” Kaaras throws her blankets away from her body, exposing her grey-lavender skin to the chilly air.

“Hinterlands,” I nod, yanking a green tunic over my head and proceeding to rake a comb through my hair.

“Yes! Finally!” the qunari crows, vaulting from her bed and joining me in wiggling into her clothes as fast as humanly—or, rather, inhumanly—possible.

“Excited, I see,” a smile tugs at my lips.

“Aren't you? We're finally getting out of this blasted cold!”

“Now that,” I sigh, wrapping my belt around my waist, “is something to look forward to.”

 

* * *

 

The road to the Hinterlands is slow, but constant. Scouts had taken the trio of horses that Knuckles, Accomplice, and I had ridden, so all we were left with were underfed cart-pullers. As we encounter streams and patches of foliage, we pause to let them eat and drink their fill.

Each night, Cassandra, Solas, Kaaras, and I take turns sparring with each other. I try to prepare myself both mentally and physically for the extremely likely possibility that I would soon have to kill another person.

By prepare, I mean not think about it until I'm staring at the canvas roof of my tent in the dark, feeling my heart rate increase and a sensation of dread curl up and twist my stomach into knots. Eventually, the awful anxiety seeps into the rest of my daily life until I can barely keep food down. My chest is so tight I can't get a full breath in.

On our fifth day of travel, a familiar looking dwarf with scars and freckles and elaborate braids steps out of the underbrush, silent as a ghost. “The Herald of Andraste and her Handmaiden,” she dips her head in acknowledgement. “It's a pleasure to meet the both of you, my ladies. Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I—all of us here,” she gestures vaguely at the trees in a manner that suggests there are yet more scouts that remain out of sight, “we'll do what we can to help.”

“Harding, huh?” Varric begins. “Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

“I can't say I have,” the scout tilts her head to the side inquisitively. “Why?”

“Because then you'd be Harding in—never mind,” he cuts himself off, chuckling.

“Ugh,” Cassandra rolls her eyes.

“I'm starting to worry about these stories everyone's heard,” Kaaras says in a light tone but with a detectable undercurrent of seriousness.

“Oh, there's nothing to worry about,” Harding smiles, dimpling. “They're only saying you're the last great hope of Thedas.”

“Oh,” the qunari slumps. “Wonderful.”

The dwarven woman shrugs. “The Hinterlands are as good a place as any to start fixing things. The scouts came to track down Redcliffe’s old horsemaster, Dennet. I grew up here. Anyone in Ferelden will tell you Dennet’s herds are the strongest and fastest this side of the Frostbacks.”

“It's taken this long to track down a single person?” Kaaras asks, brow furrowing.

Harding hooks her thumbs through the latches in her armor. “Your worship, there's a war on and Maker only knows if he's even still alive. We'll keep searching, but if you're able to, you're welcome to help. Mother Giselle's at the crossroads tending to the wounded. We've had reports that the war’s spread there, too.” She looks away, grimacing. “Corporal Vale and our other people won't be able to hold out for much longer. You'd best get going. There's no time to lose.”

“Right then. Thank you,” the horned woman nods, tightening her grip around her weapon. “Let's go.”

We fall into step behind her. I slip my bow from my back and stretch my magical awareness as far as it will go. Just as I become aware of the volatile presences with rapidly fluctuating energies up ahead, Solas is already speaking rapidly. “There are approximately thirteen apostates around the corner, and based off of the patterns of their auras they are in the middle of battle. Prepare yourselves.”

“I’ll take lead,” Kaaras rolls her shoulders back, swinging her massive blade. “I'm more than capable of drawing the brunt of their fire. Cassandra, you're welcome to join me. Varric, do us all a favor and make sweet love to Bianca's trigger. Solas, you’re damage detail: barriers, controlling the tide of battle, an occasional fireball. Ross, do what you're comfortable with. Just don't get killed, and don't get _us_ killed. Understood?”

“Roger that,” I deliver a mock salute.

“Ready? Let's move!” The qunari pumps her first into the air. We race down the rest of the heavily trodden dirt path, coming abruptly into the full view of the chaotic crossroads. Bolts of fire and lightning and ice arc through the area, colliding with armored Templars flailing around with their brightly flashing blades.

“Hraaaaaargh!” Kaaras bellows, leaping to an impossible height in the air before bringing her greatsword down in a massive sweeping motion. Those who aren't cleaved in half are at least knocked off their feet.

Mage and Templar alike turn to gawk for a moment at the ferocious qunari woman in their midst. That is, until a wild-eyed mage tries to take advantage of the distraction to cast a sheet of ice over a trio of Templars and the fighting’s started back up again.

“We are not apostates!” Cassandra protests, raising her shield to duck under hacking blades.

“I do not think they are listening,” Solas notes, somehow still managing to sound dry in the middle of battle. He conjures a barrier over the two warriors duking it out in the melee, not focused on an apostate, a bit more clever than the rest, sneaking up on him.

Luckily, I _am_ focused on her and I've got an arrow nocked and released before she can finish conjuring her bolt of lightning or whatever. The barbed tip of my arrow lodges in the flesh of her shoulder and the mage’s face contorts in agony.

I look away a moment before Varric fires a crossbow bolt into her cranium, abruptly silencing her pained shriek.

The whole fight, I only do non-lethal damage, if any. Most of the time I'm setting up barriers and creating fire traps. My magic isn't as strong as it could be, considering I'm without a staff, but it's functional. There's an unspoken communication between Solas and I, as while he is very capable of focusing on defense magic, a little more firepower is needed in the fight. And anyway, I've got both eyes peeled for enemies trying to flank or ambush any of us.

So the barriers he cast lean a tad more to the explosive side of things, and my fire serves the ulterior purpose of distracting people, catching the fabric of their robes and under-armor on fire. One mage tries to put out the flames of another with a sheet of ice. A fatal mistake, considering the fact that Kaaras barrels through them, shattering portions of their flesh and slicing through the rest.

We are nearing the end of the battle when a Templar nearly decapitates me. I'd been distracted, just for a few seconds, by the process of getting a barrier up around Varric. I hadn't seen him coming. It's almost instinctual, when I drive the dagger through the soft part of his throat and into his skull, making him collapse in a shuddering heap. I’ve still got a grip on the dagger when he falls, so it slides out with a wet sound, slick with blood.

My hands, too, are covered in red. The blade tumbles from my numb fingers to land in the grass, far too close to the spasming soon-to-be corpse at my feet.

My breaths are coming fast, too fast, far too fast, and so is my heart. I can hear it pounding in my ears so loud and consuming that I can think of nothing else. The same heart that's pumping blood through my veins. Blood in my veins like the blood on my hands, like the blood coming out of the still thrashing man on the ground. Only he's—he's not thrashing anymore. He's still, limbs unnaturally bent underneath his armor, helmet torn away from his head.

Oh.

Oh. Oh no.

No no. No no no. No.

This can't be. I can't have killed someone. 

But...it _is_ , and I _have_ , and no matter what bullshit I tell myself, that Templar is laying bloodied in the grass to tell me otherwise.

I'm a murderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the title is a Bohemian Rhapsody reference. He killed a man, Ross killed a man. Weakly linked parallelism for the win!


	21. An Unexpected Bout of Compassion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I don't reply to comments as often as I should. It's just that I am an awkward duckling when it comes to these things.

I move to help rifle through the belongings of the dead Templars and apostates, even as the idea of robbing their prone forms makes bile rise up into my throat. These people had families. They could have had lovers, husbands, wives, mothers, fathers, children, and friends who will wonder what happened. Who will _continue_ to wonder what happened because none of us knew the names of these people and thus cannot document their deaths.

Back in Haven when the Breach was swirling in the sky with full force, I remember how I had felt seeing the dead covered with rune-scrawled shrouds for their last rite rituals. It had been sad, of course, devastating to see the impacts that Solas’ pride had wrought. It had been more real than sitting in front of a computer screen. In the back of my mind, though, I was still sort of thinking of them as NPCs. They were unimportant to the main story and objectively irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

But these _are_ people. I saw that Templar’s eyes glaze over with fear the moment he realized he had been dealt a fatal blow. I had watched the life leach out of him and I had done nothing to stem the tide. I wonder if he had died believing he was right and just in what he stood for. After all, it had been a mage that had murdered him in the end. A cold-hearted and blood-thirsty monster.

What if _I am_  a monster?

“Bluebird, have you heard a thing I've said in the last five minutes?” Varric asks, a deeply concerned expression on his face.

“Sorry,” I sink back down to reality, “no. I haven't.” It is with some surprise that I note the bodies have all been piled together away from the village. _Did I help with that? I don't remember._

The dwarf squints up at me. “Are you alright? I know you said you were fine earlier, but you're pale as the snow on the Frostbacks and you've maybe spoken ten words in the last hour.”

“An hour?” My brow furrows. _It's been that long?_

“Yeah,” he scowls, “some of the villagers that had fled are already trickling back in and most of the wounded hadn't even left. They were just hidden away from the main road because of the fighting. Reaver, Chuckles, and the Seeker went to go talk to Corporal What's-his-name, but they were worried about you. And honestly? So am I.”

“I'm fine,” I mumble weakly, waving his concerns away.

“Bullshit,” Varric’s eyes narrow. “That's the first time you've killed another person. If you were actually fine I would be much more concerned.”

“Okay. You win,” I shrug, trying to force the tears welling up in my eyes back into my face through sheer power of will. “I’m not actually fine. I just need to not think about it, okay? I'll go hunt down Mother Giselle and help her with her healing. I know people aren't feeling friendly toward mages at the moment but I do actually have some non-magically based medicinal skill.” I turn away, marching off toward the shaded slope where the Chantry mother hovers over her patients.

“If you need to talk—”

“Thank you,” I cut him off, “but please don't worry about it, Varric. I promise I will talk to you once I've had some time to think. Just...later. Please.” My teeth are gritted now and I furiously scrub a few stubborn tears from my cheeks before they can dribble down my chin.

“I think I'm gonna hold you to that, Bluebird,” he sighs. “Some hunter needed ram meat, so I'm going to head out to that hill there,” he points, making sure I've followed his line of sight before he drops his arm. “If the Seeker comes back while I'm gone, do me a favor and tell her where I went, huh? Don't want her sending out a search party.”

“Yeah,” I agree, scared to say anything more complicated than that for fear of the increasingly likely possibility that I am about to break out into hysterical sobbing.

I hear grass crunch behind me and know the storyteller is walking away, going toward the path that leads out of the crossroads and to the hill that is home to the rams. I heave a halting, watery sigh, take a deep breath, and steel myself to deal with battlefield injuries for the second time.

While no civilians were injured during this particular bout of fighting, there are a few soldiers assigned to my care who have suffered burns and ice damage. One woman has actually been slashed at by a Templar’s sword, although her wound is relatively shallow. Miraculously, none of the refugees have yet died, and I need to make sure it stays that way. I set people to boiling pots of water, then to boiling rags _in_ the pots of water, and then I order them not to touch the rags if their hands are unclean.

I get lost in the work. Having to be a rock, existing only to calm others in their time of need, it distracts me from my own problems.

At least until a soldier practically drags me over to his wounded comrade lying on a bedroll, a sheen of sweat on his brow, cracked lips, and a wound penetrating through muscle and flesh all the way to where his small intestine would reside. I pull up the edge of the shirt to see clear inflammation surrounding the injury. Septic shock. He moans pitifully, eyes rolling back into his head. “Hurts...h—help me…help…”

“I...I don't…” I trail off. There is no way I can save him. Not with my limited experience and lack of supplies. When he snags my tunic with a white-knuckled grip, I make a decision. “Get me a rag, ser,” I snap at the man who'd brought me here. “I'm going to try and save him.” The soldier has a dirty scrap of cloth in my hand before I've finished my sentence, but for once its cleanliness doesn't matter to me. The man on the bedroll will die a painful death and there is nothing I can do about it except for…one thing.

It's just that...I can't. I can't. There is no way that I will be able to take the life of a human being when I'm not making a multitude of impulsive, adrenaline-based decisions, at least not with what I've got on hand. If I had some fast-acting poison, maybe, but I do not.

“Nothing you can do,” a lanky boy with pale hair and a wide-brimmed hat appears, crouching by the dying man's head. “Nothing you can do but watch and wait. It hurts it hurts it hurts you know so much but cannot do the deed that will hurt you back. Out of time, out of time, he will go slowly and badly but I can help. I can make it soft and quick. I want to help.”

“Cole?” I stutter, staggering backward. “What are you—you're not supposed to be here yet!”

“A familiar face, familiar voice. Cole. Compassion. He helps. Relief, sweet and cool. You know things you should not, things you learned from far away. You know _me_ ,” icy blue eyes peek out from beneath the shadow of his hat. “Not since Rhys and Evangeline. No one remembers.”

“Handmaiden? Are you going daft on me?” the soldier next to me grabs my shoulder, fear clearly written across his features.

“ _Forget,”_ Cole waves his hand and the soldier's eyes immediately lose focus. In a daze, the man totters off.

I gulp, “Can you… Could you?”

“You can help, too. He sees you as different than you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Adrianna?” Cole responds, eerie, eyes glazing over. “Adrianna, is that you? I miss you. I want to hear your voice. I am so sorry, my love. Forgive me, please. I should have listened to you I should have listened I _should_ have—”

“It's alright,” I swallow, interlocking my fingers with the soldier's. “I'm here. I forgive you.”

“I love you, I love you but it hurts! Hot fiery burning and it hurts!” Cole continues, ritualistically drawing his dagger. I’ve read Asunder. I know what's coming. I look away before Cole does it, gripping the man's hand so tightly I can't tell whether it's for his comfort or my own. Then his fingers go slack; the labored breathing stops, and I know that he's dead. Tears silently slip down my cheeks and dribble onto the grass beneath me.

Fuck.

“Thank you, Cole,” I whisper.

He tilts his head to the side, almost mournful in his expression. “You think you will remember me but you must not remember _this_ me. It isn't in the guiding words so it isn't. It can't have been.”

My eyebrows scrunch together. “Cole… What? Guiding words? Like, the script? I mean, yeah, meeting you this early isn't canon but I'm not the Inquisitor and—”

His eyes squeeze shut as he waves his hand. “ _Forget_.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for your assistance, child,” a white-robed woman says, gently touching my shoulder. Mother Giselle. I realize I have been staring blankly at the bloody rag in my hands for several minutes now. Dimly, I bring trembling fingers to my cheek.  _Have I been crying? Put a lid on it, Ross. Sheesh._ “You have done good work here. I am sure the Maker is smiling down upon you.”

Shrugging, I toss the rag into the boiling pot of water, taking a stick stripped of its bark, and mashing the lump of fabric deeper into the foamy froth. "I do try _ever_ so much to please the Great and All-Powerful Maker. Him and his Bosom of Pure Holiness certainly are my only reasons for doing anything at all in the entire time I've been alive. Free will and compassion without ulterior motives? Going by the Chantry's current track record, such outlandish concepts probably border on blasphemy.”

“You are the Herald's Handmaiden, are you not?"Giselle breezes on as if I'd never even responded. "How well is that coming along for you?”

Barking out a harsh laugh that borders on hysteria, I shake my head. “Just to be clear, I am _not_ a Maker-ordained savior or a divine do-gooder sent to lead armies across the land of Thedas. Neither is Kaaras. We aren't even Andrastian for Pete's sake.”

“I see,” the woman nods her head in a sage-like manner. “What fools we all are to assume that the warrior who sheds their own blood and the healer who staunches ours might be sent by the most divine of beings,” she says, dry. “Even if you do not believe so, the Herald and her Handmaiden inspire hope in those who thought they had lost it long ago.”

I sigh. “If you say so. Now we've got giant targets painted on our backs and the Chantry is definitely out to get us.”

“Perhaps. I've discussed this subject with the Herald. She can inform you of plans to come. Instead of worrying about that, I think it might benefit you to get some sleep.”

Sleep. The thought of unconscious bliss is appealing. "Can you wake me up if you need me?”

“Of course.” 

A beat of silence passes between us. "Listen, Giselle. I don't actually think Andrastians have purely selfish motives when they're compassionate, you know. I mean, some do, probably, just because humans suck, but I'm not saying it's a guaranteed thing. I guess I don't cope with people dying on me very well." 

The Chantry mother's eyes crinkle around the edges as she turns away and I take that as my cue to get my shit together, eventually passing out on the floor of an abandoned home. 

It's been a long day.

All things considered, I really shouldn't have been surprised when the demon showed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm sort of hitting a bit of a wall with both this fic and life right now and I can only really control how one of those things plays out so I thought I'd ask my kind readers for input... 
> 
> What do you like to see in fics? (Dragon Age or MGiT or just in general?) Are you into little moments? Big canonical plot points? Twists and turns or shopping trips and banter? All of the above?
> 
> Does the so-far general lack of romance or romantic tension bother you? Do you find Ross irritating? 
> 
> Are the characters or current relationship dynamics believable for the most part or do they tend to come across as contrived?
> 
> Any and all constructive criticism is welcome!


	22. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start this by saying I was absolutely stunned by the responses I got last chapter. Thank you all for commenting and offering such constructive criticism. It really brightened my day! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, all of you, and I hope you continue to enjoy this fic.
> 
> *Mild noncon elements in this chapter*

The first thing that strikes me is the cold, several times worse than that of even the Frostback mountains. It permeates everything, coats my skin in icy frost, and stabs into my lungs. I suck in a painful breath and stand up. There's a vast expanse of snow stretching ahead of me. I’m sunk down in the icy drifts to my mid-calf and with some effort I dig myself out. Every step is a race to move forward before my legs become completely stuck. In the distance I see a cluster of lights, perhaps a small grouping of houses. They offer the promise of warmth at the very least.

After much stumbling and staggering, what feels like a solid hour later, I come to the realization that the houses keep drawing farther and farther away. “What the _fuck,_ ” I shriek, words snatched away by the wind as soon as they pass through my lips. “This is _bullshit!”_

All at once, as though those very words were the catalyst, the snow and cold and treacherous lights vanish. Now I'm standing alone in a cool, dark room, a blood smeared knife clenched in my hands. Startled, I let the blade fall from my fingers. Instead of hitting the ground, however, it thumps with a sickening plop onto the horribly mutilated chest of my father. His hazel eyes are blown impossibly wide, mouth working in grunts and gasps as he scrambles to get away from me. “Back...get...back,” he wheezes through panting breath.

“Dad?” I fall to my knees, reaching for his blood soaked button-up. “What happened? Did I—did I hurt you?”

“Did you _hurt_ me?” my father chokes on an almost-laugh, fabricated mirth building up into a hacking cough.

“You're okay, Dad,” I mumble, ripping shreds of fabric and balling them up to put pressure on his wounds. “I'm sorry. I don't remember hurting you. What happened?”

“Don't touch me!” he barks, violently twisting my wrist in a practiced maneuver. It's a surprising display of strength for someone so mortally wounded, made all the more evident by the fiery pain shooting through my arm. “You are no daughter of mine.” Now a throbbing vein is clearly popping out from his forehead. “You are a...disappointment...wasted potential. You... are the reason...I drove off that...day.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...we shouldn't have parted on the terms we did. I didn't mean what I said, you know, and I'm...sorry. We grew apart. I could've been a better daughter to you.” I swallow thickly, my voice scarcely more than a whisper. _I'm a disappointment to you. I know. I know. I know. I know._ I stop trying to reach for him, instead sitting back and wrapping my arms around my knees. “I'm sorry, I didn't—it's just, I don't know how I got here, and ever since the accident… The accident,” I trail off, brow furrowing in confusion. “Dad, you...you _died_ two years ago. There was a car crash. It was so bad they were pretty much scraping pieces of you off the asphalt. You—you aren't my father.”

“Are you certain you are not projecting your wishes onto me?” The thing that is Definitely Not My Father flashes a humorless smile, features taking on almost reptilian qualities: narrowed eyes and a voice closer to a hiss than anything else. “You have wounded me, and you feel nothing, just as you felt nothing when you killed _him_. That Templar. What did he look like? Do you even remember? You stole his life—his future—from him, and you didn't even blink.”

“That's not true. He would've killed me. I had to do _something_ ,” I say, though my previous confidence is nowhere to be found. “And, if not me, he might have hurt one of my friends.”

“ _Friends_ , you call us. How quaint, and so incredibly foolish,” the thing continues, no longer reptilian but now taking on a more predatory, wolfish figure. By wolfish, of course, I mean that in what seems like the blink of an eye it's Solas in full Trespasser armor stalking toward me. “What if I were to tell you that there were a total of eight different ways you could have gotten out of that situation _without_ killing him? Would you care?”

A single, hoarse, “Yes,” escapes me before I can stop myself. I gulp again, dimly aware of the dark walls of the room giving way to open air and floating stone archways dotted with eluvians. The Crossroads. “But I also realize you are a spirit preying on my fears. This is a dream. Leave.”

“That might have worked…” the demon purrs in Solas’ lilting Welsh accent, “if you were not still afraid of me. Afraid that this _isn't_ a dream. Afraid of what I might learn. What I already know. Afraid I will burn the world down in a heartbeat, and you right along with it.” His eyes swirl with magical power; his lips pull back to reveal teeth that are just slightly too sharp. “The scent of your fear is intoxicating,” he moves still closer, skimming light fingers down my cheek only to jerk my chin upward in a rough movement. “What would stop me from taking you, here and now? I promise, I would be anything _but_ gentle.” His voice drops still lower and his pelvis presses against me.

Bile rises up into the back of my throat, but I try to stay levelheaded. Squaring my shoulders and trying to pretend my legs aren't shaking, I shove him away, “Leave me alone. I'm really really not interested. Besides, Solas wouldn't hurt me if he didn't have to. He's a pretty decent guy, although a misguided one, and I don't really think—”

“ _Solas_ might not hurt you, that is true. But who can really say when it comes to Fen'Harel, the trickster god?” The demon bares his teeth, turning away from me with a definite swagger, hips swaying and shoulders thrown back. “I will tear down the Veil, restore my people to their former glory, and there is nothing— _nothing—_ you can do to stop me, you filthy _human_.”

Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I glare at him. “I won't let you do that. Not the way you want to. If you're gonna tear down the Veil you're gonna have to slow the fuck down. Plus, you need to learn how to give a shit about other people. That's the plan, and I'm sticking with it. Now get the fuck out of my goddamn head.”

“This is far from over.” Whirling around and lunging at me, it latches onto my left arm and suddenly there's this _rippingburningwrong_ sensation and now it's dark. I can't breathe. I'm drowning.

Is this what dying feels like?

It's so dark.

* * *

 

I suck in a gulp of frigid air and bolt upright, eyes wide and heart pumping madly in my chest. My muscles scream in protest at the sudden movement, tender from sleeping on unyielding stone the whole night through. The flames of the hearth have burned low, now barely more than warm embers.

“Ross,” a concerned pair of dark eyes peer at me, the owner of a calloused hand wrapped around my left arm. _Cassandra_. “Are you well?”

“Define _well,_ ” I exhale a shuddering breath, brushing hair out of my eyes and discovering a forehead slick with sweat.

The Seeker withdraws her hand from my shoulder. “Nightmares?”

I sigh. “Yeah.”

“Would you…prefer to talk about it?” she asks, looking uncertain.

“Mmm,” I shrug. In the long run, it'll probably be best to keep the bits about Solas to myself. “Some fear demon shenanigans. I handled it. I don't really remember much, actually, just the feeling of being scared, and that it was hella cold.”

“But you are a mage,” her dark brows draw together. “Mages recall every memorable encounter they have in the Fade. It is one of the main markers of _being_ a mage.”

 _Oh. Yep. Probably mentioning a demon in front of Cassandra was a bad idea._ “If you really want to know, I almost died of hypothermia before stabbing my own father. Then he told me that I had always been a disappointment to him in life. And then he died.”

“Oh,” she blinks, mouth twisting sympathetically. “I apologize.”

I look at her sideways, snorting, “For what? You had nothing to do with it.”

She clears her throat. “It is a hard thing, to watch someone you love die, but to have it be by your own hand. I cannot imagine…”

I cut her off before she can get much further, although I do appreciate the sentiment. “It's fine. It was just a dream.” Standing up, I stretch my arms until I feel my shoulders pop. “I've just gotta put it out of my mind and stop being a whiny little bitch. There are people who need help, and wallowing in self-pity won't do anything for them.”

Cassandra waits for me to wash my hands, face, and hair, and then we leave the wooden cottage together. “If you need to speak about anything, I will listen. I would hardly call grieving for the deceased the action of a whiny little...person. Saying something like that cheapens all who have died, and all who yet live to mourn for them.”

I sigh, aware now that that choice of words might be painful for Cassandra in particular. She had just lost the Divine, and I abruptly recall the existence of her late brother, Anthony. _Tactless Rosalind back at it again with the self-absorbed stupidity._ “You're right. I'm just… hurting...right now. I say things I don't mean when I'm hurting.”

The Seeker smiles slightly, awkwardly patting me on the shoulder. “I do not think you are entirely alone in that regard.”


	23. Mortars and Pestles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey how's it going my dudes I'm a lil way behind schedule but I'm still around so here ya go :))))))

I scatter a few more of the delicate purple flower petals, very similar to monkshood, into the mixture: a poultice that helps with rashes, inflammation, and the staving off of infection. It's currently a darkish, grass colored sludge scattered with torn bits of leaves and bark. With the stone pestle in my hand, I grind the ingredients against the bottom and sides of the mortar, gaining satisfaction from the addition of violet to the color of the poultice and the way it turns to a dark blue, almost a navy. Next comes a handful of vibrant red berries whose seeds and skin crush easily and whose juice tints the healing mixture a shade of deep purple.

Happy with the final product, I divvy up the mixture between three clean swatches of cotton, and tie them neatly shut. I scoop all of them up and hand them off to villagers hovering in my makeshift clinic. One goes to a woman with a deep scrape up her forearm, the second to a man who had cut himself fishing in a nearby river, and the last but certainly not the least is delivered to poor William, a young adolescent who had had an unfortunate encounter with a patch of rashvine on his quest to gather herbs for me.

He grimaces while I apply the poultice to his hand, carefully wrapping the cloth around his long fingers and over his palm. “Thank you, lady,” he says, trying to scratch at the bumpy rash underneath his bandages.

I grip his wrist with gentle firmness and wait for him to look at me before I speak. “Hey bud, stop that. You'll make it worse, so leave it alone and let the poultice do its work, got it?”

“Mm hmm,” he nods, deep red curls bouncing as he does so. Something about my face seems to capture his attention. Shifting from foot to foot, he squints up at me. “Lady? Your eyes are real bloodshot, y’ know. Are you tired?” He takes a few steps toward me, expression far too concerned for my liking. “Maybe you should go take a break.”

I scrub at my own dry eyes in a vain attempt to rub the heaviness from them. A smirk curls the corner of my mouth, aimed more at myself than at him. _How to explain to a kid that I am plagued by nightmare after nightmare and that I fear closing my eyes for even a few minutes? How to tell him that I'm just a naïve fool who had the gall to believe that because I understood a little about the natures of spirits and demons I would be automatically exempt from any difficulty in dealing with them?_

The answer of course, is that I tell him none of this, instead nodding thoughtfully in acceptance of the wise advice he has offered. “Why thank you, Apprentice Healer William. I'll take that under consideration. Once I've finished up here, I'll go get some rest, alright?”

“Alright,” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at me. “You need anythin’ else, lady, you just say the word.”

“Actually,” I raise a finger to halt him. A few moments of skimming through the ground herbs and yellowed parchment scattered over my desk reveal a vial of diluted elfroot potion with essence of Crystal Grace mixed in. “Do me a favor and take this to your mother. Tell her to portion it out between meals. It should last four or five days, and it could help with the coughing fits and headaches.”

William bobs his head in a jerking movement, not dissimilar to a bird pecking into soft soil in search of worms. “Thank you, lady Handmaiden,” he says, snatching the vial from my grasp. Before he scampers out the door completely, however, he mutters, “You know, my Da, when he was still around, did teach me a thing or two about lying, an’ you're doing it now. I can tell. There's enough sickness in Ferelden right now without you adding to it. So thank you for helping me, lady, but remember there's others out there who still need a hand. Sleep.”

The graveness of his tone gives me pause and I swallow hard after he slips away. _The boy has a point. Right now, you're a healer, an herbalist, and a teacher, all rolled into one. You can't afford to run yourself ragged. That's completely and utterly selfish of you. Stop wallowing, finish out the day, and sleep for a full eight hours, damn it._

I inhale deeply, release it, and continue working. The past two weeks have passed quickly and yet somehow simultaneously dragged on for far too long. Kaaras, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas are off killing people and hunting down Horsemaster Dennet, which I don't particularly mind missing out on. There's plenty to be done here at the crossroads anyway.

I've gathered together groups of the few volunteers floating around the refugee camp that are available to work for me, sometimes involving children, as in the case of William. I've set people to gathering ingredients, boiling and scrubbing down clothes and bandages, and making sure the dead are given their last rites and properly disposed of as far away as possible from the main living area and any nearby food or water sources.

I rinse out a few flasks and begin measuring out portions of new ingredients, this time for a potion that Adan said can help ease labored breathing. A frail human man has been having difficulty with a hacking cough and congestion, a man whom I know to be a relatively weak storm mage thanks to my aura-sensing ability. I also want to make another dosage for the elven merchant whose wife needs that super specific potion from their son in the friendly neighborhood cult. I know Kaaras has been made aware of the situation and I hope she plans on remedying it, because for now all I can do is try and alleviate the symptoms.

“Handmaiden? My lady? My lady!” A frantic refugee in stained farmer's garb hurls himself into my workspace, slamming the door open with such force he knocks a few books off of the shelves.

I drop everything I'm working with, moving to steady the man. “Hutchison? What's wrong? Are you alright? Is someone hurt?”

“It's the Herald, my lady,” he pants, eyes blown wide with fear. “She returned, and she's alright, but she begged I retrieve you.”

“Why the urgency?” I press my lips together, beginning to straighten the papers I'd displaced on my desk in the hurry. “You frightened me. I thought she might have been wounded.”

“Nay, my lady,” he shakes his head. “There was a knif— _elf_ slung o’er ‘er back, bald and lean. She said she'd carried him a good distance and he weren't looking too well.”

“Solas?” My voice goes up a few octaves in pitch. “Is he—anything could be wrong with him! Did Kaaras tell you what happened?”

“No, Handmaiden. From what I could see, there didn't look to be any battle wounds. Somethin’ below the skin would be my guess, but I'm no medicine man.”

I center myself; my eyes slip half closed into a trance-like state. “Below the skin? That could still mean so many things. What's likely? Poison, for one. Deathroot, maybe? Adder venom? I know for sure that magebane is at least plausible. Maybe a giant spider took him by surprise!” With each new idea that pops into my head, I take down new ingredients and sort them into what I'd need for each antidote. Not that magebane actually _has_ an antidote, but I should at least be able to bring him back to consciousness. “Hutchison?”

“Yes, miss?”

“The elf. Was he moaning or stirring at all, or was he completely out cold?”

“About as lively as a sack of potatoes.”

 _Interesting._ “That narrows things down. Thank you, Hutchison. Let's see. I should go check—”

“Coming through, Bluebird!” Varric whirls inside, holding the door open for Cassandra and Kaaras, all three bloodstained and battle-weary. Hutchison takes his cue to leave. “I hope you can do something about Chuckles here. That archer or whoever the hell it was got him pretty good. I _told_ you that sleeping in an abandoned ruin would be a bad idea, Reaver.”

“Next time I'll be sure to take your advice into account, Varric, but it wasn't my idea to go there in the first place. Solas was the one that wanted to frolic around dream land,” Kaaras grunts, though there's no real bite to her words, just annoyance. I hurry to clear off a table, laying tattered blankets across it before the qunari woman lays Solas down. She's surprisingly gentle in her movements for as large a person as she is. “Well, Ross? What can you do?”

“An arrow, right? No reason for a single arrow to be this incapacitating. Not enough bleeding for it to be particularly harmful. Most probable explanation is that it was poisoned.” I raise an eyebrow, eyes latching onto the bloodied bandages around Solas’ calf, and then to a massive bruise on the side of his head. Not exactly one of the venomous snakes or many deadly spiders so commonplace in Texas. Still, I am familiar with a few procedures from my summer stints at a wildlife conservation park throughout my school years. “Punctured the skin here, clearly coated in a substance which,” I peel back the cloth to get a better look at the wound, “also acted as a sealant. He’s no longer bleeding out, and that ensures the poison keeps circulating through his system. If I attempt to reopen the wound it will severely increase the risk of infection, which could kill him, and doing nothing could kill him just as easily. This _really_ isn't good.”

“No shit,” the dwarf snorts, although his concern is palpable.

“First things first,” I press on, easing hands under Solas’ neck and the curve of his spine and trying to temporarily ignore the alarming shallowness of his breaths, “we need to get him sitting up. His heart should be above the puncture wound to minimize the spread of the poison in his blood.”

It is Cassandra that carefully lifts his legs, mindful of the injury, and helps me shift the prone elven man. “What now?”

“Now?” I allow my gaze to skim over Solas in an analytical fashion. His lips are parted and his face is extremely pale. A sheen of sweat forms on his brow. “If this was a snake or something I'd say he needs antivenom and he needed it yesterday, but we don't even _have_ any antivenom so…oh wait. We don't have antivenom but we do have _antidotes_.”

“Varric,” I raise Solas’ leg up just high enough that I can ease a strip of cloth around his upper calf, two inches away from the wound and loose enough I can fit a finger underneath. I note something interesting: the flesh surrounding the injury has darkened to be almost black, tinged with red. “That green book on the desk over there with all the notes and everything, yes, that one, bring it here please. Page 132, or maybe 123? One of them. It should have instructions for an antidote to a Ferelden Webslinger’s venom. I think that's what the arrowhead was coated with.”

“You've sure written a lot of notes in here, Bluebird. I can't understand half of it.”

 _Oh, shit. Most of that is English. Fuck._ “Do me a favor and just read off the ingredients, please. We need to move quickly.” _Good. Evade the situation. It's probably nothing and if it is something, we'll deal with it later._

“You'll need a pot of water, ten elfroot leaves, an embrium stalk, and diced felandaris root."

My movements are fluidly assured in a way that only comes naturally when in the midst of an emergency. I empty a waterskin into a pot over the hearth and add some logs to stoke the flames. “What do I need to do with the other ingredients, Varric?”

“Slice the embrium stalk, let it boil in the water, grind the elfroot and felandaris together, add that to the mixture, and then strain it out.”

“Excellent. That's manageable. Cassandra? Can you mince the embrium into as small of pieces as you can manage?”

“I will do my best,” she shifts uncertainly, taking the knife I've offered and begins slicing through the green plant-flesh.

“Kaaras,” I turn to the qunari, placing the elfroot leaves and pieces of felandaris stalk into the small stone mortar, “have you used a mortar and pestle before?”

“Once or twice,” she smiles wryly before taking the stone tools. Her technique is crude at first, but she quickly develops a more efficient system of small circles and focus points.  

“Uh, hey, Bluebird,” Varric gestures for me to join him, “it says here that there's some magic shit you can pull to speed things along. This mean anything to you?”

I skim over the words, lightly mouthing along with them. “I see. Talismans, charms, a handy-dandy spirit healer that just happens to be lurking nearby. We've not really got any of this available and I don't exactly know much about the magical aspect of healing.”

“Maybe not, but look here,” the dwarf jabs a gloved finger further down the page. “If you gave him a little bit of lyrium, he might be able to do something for himself.”

_Ha, the idea of making an Elvhen god drink the blood of a Titan. That’ll go over well._

“No, see, right there it says to do so only if they've been unconscious for twelve hours or more. I'd say, coming from an anatomical standpoint as well as one with little actual understanding of the physiological effects lyrium might have, there is a chance that it may increase the speed at which his circulatory system operates, which is the last thing we want when we're fighting the spread of venom.”

“Could you say that again, but in Common this time?” Kaaras exhales, obviously tired but continuing to crush leaves into the base of the mortar.

“We don't know for sure whether or not giving him lyrium might speed up the venom in his blood,” I sigh. “Point is, we should wait and try this first to see if it takes effect. If not, then we can try using lyrium as a treatment.”

Varric shrugs, passing me my annotated copy of _101 Alchemical Recipes._ “You know your shit better than I do. I'll let you know when the water is boiling.”

I smile, wan. “Thank you, Varric. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Using the back of my hand, I gauge Solas’ temperature at around the same as the fiery pits of hell. “Shit,” I hiss under my breath. His brow furrows and he flinches away from me. _Not quite as unconscious as Hutchison thought. Poor wolf._ Concentrating, I conjure up icy shells around my fingertips, trailing them in patterns across the elf’s forehead. He shudders, sighs, and slumps further down the wall I've propped him against.

_What if he died here? How would things change?_

_No. No. We are not following this train of thought. The trickster god, the rebel, the great Fen'Harel is not going to die from a stupid arrow._

_Listen. You've got a job to do. Please please just shut up and get on with it._

“Bluebird? Please tell me you were just feeling a little chilly,” Varric gives me a look, tilting his head toward the massive flames licking their way up the cauldron of water. “It's boiling now, by the way.”

“Sorry,” I forcibly release my magical hold on the hearth fire. “Cassandra, Kaaras, are you guys good?”

The qunari grunts, “More or less.”

“Are these an acceptable size?” The Seeker shows me sliced pieces of embrium so small they might be mistaken for minced garlic were it not for the color and odor.

“Perfect, actually,” I commend her. Turning back to the book, I skim through the rest of the instructions.

“Right. So we put in half of the elfroot/felandaris mixture, let the water acquire a green tint, then the embrium, the rest of the elfroot mixture, and stir in boiling water for five minutes. Good? Good. Let's get going.”

We work efficiently, and by that I mean I hurry about the place in a tizzy while the others slowly retreat to separate corners of the room. Kaaras does take over at one point to allow me to check up on Solas’ condition. He seems almost to be recovering on his own and part of me suspects it has something to do with the whole Fen’Harel thing. Already, his breathing seems a little less labored, a little more even. I need to get this potion in him before the others suspect anything odd.

Half an hour passes and the pot has mostly cooled when we filter out the majority of the plant material and portion it out between five flasks. Scrounging up some spare bits of twine and parchment, I label them as antidotes for giant spider venom in Trade and then in abbreviated English. Varric, Kaaras, and Cassandra have departed, but I promised to let them know if there are any severe developments in Solas’ condition.

“Done. Finally,” I store the other four flasks with my other creations and return to Solas’ side. “Hey, pal? Solas?” Gently shaking him, I slowly attempt to wean him back into consciousness. _“_ You need to wake up _._ You have too many things to do, friend. _”_

“Mm...who are...mmm,” the elf groans, eyes flickering open but almost immediately sliding shut again. “Ah…”

I place the flask in one of his shaking hands, wrapping his fingers around the bottle for him. “Solas, um, I'm real sorry but you're gonna have to drink this.”

“What is it?” he reopens a wary eye.

“Antidote. You took the business end of an arrowhead to the leg, and it ain't pretty. This should help. Now drink, please. No time for chit-chat.”

“No time,” he chuckles hoarsely. “Such a strange concept. In Elvhenan, the olden times, they took centuries to do anything... worthwhile. But even they...even they ran out of time...eventually.”

My mouth thins. “Antidote. Drink. Now.”

“As you wish,” he exhales, tipping the bottle back and grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Thank you.” I take the empty flask, rinse out the dregs left at the bottom, and by the time I turn around he's passed out again.

I hum, pleased, and take the time to add some extra padding around Solas’ neck and lower back, write a quick note, and leave it on the table with my ingredients should he awaken. With the difficulty I'm having keeping my eyes open, I know it won't be long before I've joined Solas in traveling the Fade.

I manage to hang on for two more hours, and by then Solas’ fever has broken and he's shivering in his sleep. I drape my only remaining blanket over him, pull up a chair so I can lean my head on the table, and interlock my fingers with his. Gradually, I allow my hand to heat up with magic, though I'm careful not to set it aflame. The elf almost naturally curls toward the warmth I exude, and when I drift off, it is into a peaceful dream, free of demons for the first time in weeks.


	24. Stories by the Campfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter that isn't horrendously behind schedule?!? What does it mean?!?

I awaken to stiffness in my limbs and fingers interlocked with mine. Startled, I blink the sleep in my eyes away to see a mop of light brown hair spilling over shoulders lightly dusted with freckles. Long lashes send shadows slanting over a round nose and full, pink lips. _What a warm woman_ … My fingers find themselves combing through the soft hair falling over her forehead just enough to discover ears that are not pointed, but round. Human.

Rosalind.

Her skin is abnormally chilled and clammy. A shiver wracks through her frame at my touch.

I snatch my hand away as though scalded. The fire has burned low and she is covered only with the clothes on her back, but it is not only that which concerns me. Her aura is fainter than it ought to be, drained. No. It is still draining—into the pool of energy around myself.

That is not a promising sign. I am capable of absorbing far larger amounts of power than she is able to give. Had I slept for much longer, she might have seriously weakened, injured, or even killed herself.

“Rosalind,” I say, not wishing to think about the faint flare of alarm jolting through me.

“Mm. Yeah?” A single blue eye pops open. Her pupils dilate in realization. “Oh! You're awake!” In her excitement, she shoots up from her chair, clearly regretting the decision immediately, as she clutches her head and stumbles into the table with a moan.

“Is there a reason that you were transferring energy to me in the night? That was and still is an incredibly dangerous thing to do, even when one is not _unconscious_ while doing so.”

She peeks at me through splayed fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Look very carefully at each of our auras,” I say, tone clipped.

She takes a moment to reach for her magic, no doubt finding it much more difficult to reach than she has anticipated. “Okay. So... my aura is really dim and yours is brighter? How did that happen?”

I look pointedly at the hand which had been recently holding my own.

“Oh,” her expression clears. “Your fever had just broken. I was trying to lend you a little bit more warmth. If I actually did do an ‘energy transfer’ as you say, it wasn't intentional.”

I exhale softly, surprised at the human girl's earnestness. “Please refrain from draining your mana when you can help it.”

“I'll try.” At the sharp look I give her, she purses her lips. “You're one to talk, anyway. Wandering off alone and getting attacked by bandits. It's a wonder you're alright.”

“I am usually not disturbed when I wander the Fade. I was not without my precautions. The situation was likely not as dire as you are making it out to be.”

“Yeah,” she grins. Her eyes contain a warm glint of mirth, though at what I cannot say. “It's weird. You got better _insanely_ fast.”

 _Ah. Yes._ I clear my throat. “You are evidently a skilled healer.”

The human shrugs, “not really. You're just lucky, I guess.”

Moving the covers aside to look at the scarring on my bare leg, I grimace. “Perhaps lucky is the wrong word for my current state of being.”

Her expression shifts abruptly into something more pained. “Yes. Lucky _is_ probably the wrong word.”

* * *

 

Several days later, after I’ve found myself back to traveling with Kaaras’ party, we set up camp atop a hill with more sparse vegetation than the surrounding area. This gives us the distinct advantages of visibility and the upper ground. Another plus is the ease with which we can spot the _ungodly_ amount of bears lumbering around the place.

Seriously. Fuck Hinterland bears. Like, as tertiary predators, they really shouldn't be so numerous. _Why_ are they so numerous?

There's thankfully been very little in the way of combat with humans, and I take the time to tend to people we meet along the way with the herbs, potions, poultices, and salves I was able to fasten to one of the horses the Herald had received from Horsemaster Dennet.

Estrella is a mare, a fairly muscular blue roan with a white diamond smack dab in the middle of her forehead and darker patches of spotting across her back. I'm told she's no Antivan Strider when it comes to speed, but she's sturdy and she's definitely got stamina. We strike up a quick rapport with each other, as I take care to maintain her health and she demonstrates a remarkable awareness of danger in the ways that are unique to animals: alert ears pricking up and swiveling around attentively, flaring nostrils, and a calm demeanor even if I'm leading her into an area with more to it than meets the eye. I count myself lucky to have such a steed, even when my inner thighs are sore beyond belief from riding day in and day out.

Kaaras’ dapple grey stallion, one of the only horses on Dennet’s property to allow the qunari and her unnaturally glowing hand anywhere near it, is absolutely huge, bulky, and holds its head with a regal tilt. When light plays across the horse's hide, it almost appears to transform into a spirit of the ocean and the air rather than a beast of flesh and earth: a being composed from matter depicting the exact moment a long-traveled wave breaks across a craggy shore and spews sea foam across the rocks. So, when Kaaras gives her stallion the name of Meraad, Tide, it is like she is not naming it at all, but rather stating an indisputable fact of the universe.

 _It is strange,_ I think, _how our horses represent us so well in certain aspects._ Cassandra rides a fearless chestnut charger called Fabian, Solas has the Thedosian equivalent of a Palomino he has dubbed Shem’vir, although I cannot tell whether or not he intended the name to be ironic, and Varric is cheerfully stuck with an equally cheerful pony whom he refers to as Pip. All of the horses are tied to trees just outside of the light of the campfire, left to graze on a patch of grass and to rest after a long day’s riding.

I sit in the dirt a little distance away from the crackling flames, content to watch Varric turn skewers of mildly seasoned rabbit meat and root vegetables over the fire. Cassandra runs an oil-soaked cloth across her blade, tending to her weapon in a frank and matter-of-fact way. Kaaras, on the other hand, cares for her own greatsword with an expression not unlike a mother tending to a child. The softness in her expression should shock me and yet I find that it does not. Kaaras, I am quickly discovering, is a strange blend of strategist, efficient warrior, and merciful diplomat. She's one hell of a triple threat, and she'll make a fantastic Inquisitor one day.

Varric looks up at me from the fire. “Hey, Bluebird, could you hand me that—” The squawk of a raven overhead causes us all to glance up, our eyes latching onto the black form darting through the leaves and diving down toward our campsite. “Shit,” the dwarf sighs, “is that one of the Nightingale's?”

“I think so,” Kaaras nods, allowing the bird to land on her arm and gingerly removing the small scroll bound to its leg. She scans the message quickly and Varric places ink and a quill in her hand so that she can write a swift reply on the back. “Leliana says that Cullen and his men are nearly done working on the watchtowers, so within the next two weeks we should expect to head out on the road back to Haven.”

“Really?” I murmur, scooping up the small pouch of salt Varric had gestured for me to retrieve for him. “That was fast. Does that mean Giselle’s in the village already?"

“Most likely. And Leliana also hinted that a trip to Val Royeaux might be present at some time in the imminent future.”

“What does the ambassador think we will need to accomplish there?” Cassandra leans forward. Solas cants his head up as well, eyes narrowing in an attentive fashion.

“Some kind of power play,” Varric guesses, brow wrinkling.

“That's what I'm thinking,” the qunari nods. “She wants us to meet up with some Chantry members. I think they want to talk? Leliana didn't mention how she feels about it, so I guess we'll find out what’s really going to happen once we get back.”

Cassandra settles back on her log, rag returning to the the slow, methodical movements of polishing her blade. “That sounds like a reasonable plan.”

“Until then, these are done,” announces Varric, withdrawing the freshly cooked food and portioning it out between us. “Eat up, eat up, I've got cards and I don't want to mess them up with greasy fingers. They warp easy, y’know.”

“Fine by me.” Grinning, I accept his offering of food, and I take a seat near him. “Want to tell us a story in the meantime?”

Cassandra groans, an agonized noise. “Do not encourage him, Ross. He already has far too large a head.” Her words are negated by the anticipatory excitement evident in her body language.

Varric sees this as well, his wide smile a flash of dazzlingly white teeth. “I’d been planning on spinning a few tales anyway, don't worry your pretty little head, Seeker.”

“I was not _worried,_ ” Cassandra splutters.

“Now, now, you don't have to hide it. I know you get a kick out of my stories. Well, all except for that time you stabbed my book right in front of me. _That_ was just plain rude.”

Her face flushes blotchy crimson. “I had been trying to make a point, and—”

“Ah, I'm just teasing you, Seeker. Besides, we have more important things to discuss than previous stabbings of books. For instance, would you like to hear about the time Hawke ended up  abducted by a bunch of Templars and our drunken attempts at a rescue plan? Or maybe something a little more lighthearted?”

“Definitely the first one,” Kaaras says. Her violet eyes flicker warmly in the firelight.

Varric rests his hands upon his knees, simultaneously opening himself up to all of us. “Excellent choice, Reaver.” He clears his throat. “So, this one night, Hawke, Daisy, Broody, and I had just come back from a day of killing Tal Vashoth—no offense, Reaver, but they were the crazy kind—rogue Templars, blood mages, and who knows what else. So, naturally, we each needed to chug a tankard or two of ale to cool down. Well, maybe that hadn't exactly been _Daisy's_ intent starting out, but she'd had a rough day. We all had.”

“Broody… That is Fenris, yes?” Cassandra ventures. “I thought he had a wine cellar in that mansion of his, the one that belonged to that Tevinter magister? Why did he not go there?”

The storyteller shrugs. “It had been a _really_ rough day. Drinking with friends beats drinking alone any time of the week, no matter what Broody might have you think. So anyway, we're sitting there at the bar in a tavern that reeks of vomit and seven kinds of piss, and Hawke is completely passed out snoring, mug still in hand. This big armored Templar comes along, claps a gloved hand on his shoulder, and goes, _Garrett Hawke, you are wanted for trial at the Gallows for practicing the vile art of blood magic. By the order of Knight-Commander Meredith, you must come willingly, or we will take you by force._

“Now, Hawke was in no place to be going anywhere on his own two legs, so the Templar and his pal basically lifted him up and started to carry him outside.”

I sit up a little. “They just took Hawke from the tavern? Not one person objected?”

Varric gives me a wry look. “You think Lowtown regulars of the Hanged Man are gonna confront a pair of Templars? I told you. In Kirkwall, people disappear and no one says a damn word half the time. A guy's own skin comes before anyone else's. Now, if Broody had been in the room, I doubt he would've let those Templars live right then, but he was gone. Getting some air, I think.

“Anyway, Daisy and I were hardly in a position to take on four very armored, very _sober_ Templars at that exact point in time. That meant we had to be the cleverest little shits in the whole city, just for that night.”

The next hour was spent listening to Varric weave a tale in which the Kirkwall gang used all their wiles to get Hawke out of the Gallows. Isabela, who was a near permanent fixture in the Hanged Man at the time and had thus seen everything, employed a certain pair of _assets_ to distract the guards. Fenris ripped a whole lot of people's hearts out of their chests. Merrill had been convinced to go back to her home, as an elven blood mage breaking into the domain of the Templars could have had disastrous consequences for the alienage later down the line.

“We'd finally got the cell door unlocked, and I remember Hawke, all hopped up on magebane, looking up with this stupid goofy grin and saying, _Varric, ol’ buddy ol’ pal, you owe me a whole Maker-damned keg of the Man’s finest when we get back._ Then, he grabbed Broody by the collar and plopped this big sloppy kiss on his cheek, which was as much of a shocker for the poor elf as it wasn't for us, and then he just passes out again.

“That was a problem because Hawke was a heavy sort of fellow. So, when we ran across a wheelbarrow of all things, we lifted him into it, covered him with a ratty blanket, and got him safely out of the Gallows. Meredith never knew what happened. She might’ve tried to take him again at some point, but he tracked down Saemus Dumar the next month, and she couldn't do anything to him while he was under the viscount's protection.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Let me get this straight,” Kaaras chortles, “the soon-to-be Champion of Kirkwall was sentenced to be hanged, so you smuggled him out in a _wheelbarrow_?”

“Not only did we smuggle him out in a wheelbarrow, but the wheels didn't sit right, so we were trying to silently creep through this compound with a wheelbarrow that _squeaked._ ”

“That's amazing,” I laugh at the image of Varric, Fenris, and Isabela tiptoeing _Scooby-Doo_ style down a torch lit hallway, wheeling a snoring Hawke between them and dodging guards at the last second. It probably involved a lot more murder than _Scooby-Doo,_ but still.

“And what about you?” Varric asks, taking out his deck of cards and shuffling them. “One of you must have a good tale or two. Being the only storyteller can get a little stale.”

“Solas?” I say, at the same time Kaaras goes, “Rosalind?”

The ancient egg raises a dismissive hand, smiling slightly, “I am afraid that you will most likely find my stories boring. Many of the more interesting encounters I have had have been with spirits in the Fade.”

“You could read a phonebook to me and I would be interested,” I mutter under my breath.

Solas raises a brow. “What was that?”

“Oh, um, I said that I would be very interested. I mean, you have a perspective on the Fade that seems altogether unique so why wouldn't I want to know more? That is...um...I don't mean to say—”

_Hush, Rosalind. Hush. Really. Shut the hell up._

Varric, for his part, guffaws so theatrically he nearly chokes on his food. “I'm gonna have to take a hard pass on the Fade shit, Chuckles. No offense to you, but that shit is too weird and way too over my head. Whether or not you have a, what was it? A perspective on the Fade that is altogether unique?”  

“No offense taken,” Solas lightly shrugs, more amused than anything else. _Thank the Maker._

“There was this one time the Valo-kas had been hired to kill this asshole noble guy, except someone else had also hired the Crows for the same job, so we had an incredibly, ah, _awkward_ meetup at the mark’s location…” Kaaras begins.

“That must've been one hell of a shit-show,” Varric settles back against his log, getting comfortable. “Keep going. You can't _not_ with a lead-in like that.”

Kaaras weaves her tale and appears pleased with our reactions. Cassandra is eventually persuaded to talk about some of her adventures working for the Divine, and then it's back to Varric and his endless supply of Kirkwall shenanigans. The rest of the night passes by like that: a pleasant blur filled with swapped stories, laughter, and a new (if not fragile) sense of camaraderie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shem'vir: quick path, fast way. The name of Solas' horse that may or may not be ironic considering harts and halla are just better overall


	25. A Helping Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil late, but I'm here

“Ross, Solas, would you mind hanging around here for today?” Kaaras makes a sweeping gesture toward the small Inquisition encampment set up at the edge of Lake Luthias, now home to nine refugees or so. Some are injured. Some are not. Bandits had attacked a short time before our arrival and the rest of them had apparently been abducted. Additionally, a large portion of their supplies had been stolen. “They need all the help they can get, I think.” She waves at the dark haired armored man we'd encountered earlier. “You coming, Blackwall?”

“If you'll have me,” the warden answers, awkwardly shifting his weight. “I don't want to leave any of them behind, not if there's an alternative. You'll have a Warden's shield at your back, Inquisition. Er, agents. Herald?”

“Kaaras.”

“Right.” Blackwall looks a little suspicious of her, but still seems content to follow.

“A Grey Warden. Of course. That is _exactly_ what we need to remedy this situation,” Solas mutters so quietly only I hear him.

It's difficult to resist the urge to elbow Solas in the ribs, if only in the name of the potential Cousland, Surana, Amell, Mahariel, Brosca, or Aeducan of the world. Unless the Hero of Ferelden is actually a fuckwad. I'd need to talk to someone about that. Leliana, maybe?

Actually, as soon as that thought crosses my mind I take it back immediately. Leliana is way too scary. If I pry too obviously into her past, she may just decapitate me and move on to morning tea without issue. Maybe Cullen?

Considering the circumstances in which he and the Hero would've met, maybe that's also a bad idea.

“What are you going to be doing, Kaaras?”

“Hunting down the assholes that robbed 'em in the first place. What else?” the qunari woman's lips peel back from her teeth in a feral grin.

“Hopefully, we might also be able to retrieve these people's belongings,” Cassandra adds, wry.

Kaaras nods. “Of course. Who do you take me for? Just because I'm looking forward to busting a new variety of skulls doesn't mean I don't have a heart.”

Snorting, Varric agrees, “I'm all for blowing off a little steam, though usually I'd prefer a nice game of Wicked Grace to do the job. Still, any bandits that'd steal when the sky's still got that giant green asshole probably has another thing coming.”

Solas twirls his staff in a contemplative fashion. “Are you certain that leaving the party’s mages to tend to the refugees is the best idea?” he looks sideways at me. “They may not take kindly to the idea.”

“There are ways we can help without using magic,” I point out.

“I suppose you are correct,” he concedes with a small inclination of his head. “Although I am not certain as to what we could provide them.”

I shrug. “Believe me, there's plenty.” My time at the crossroads has provided a decent amount of insight in regard to what these refugees might want or need. “You're good, Kaaras?”

“I should be.” Out of habit, her hand finds the grip of her greatsword. “Yep. I got all I need.”

“Cool. Let's go, Solas.” I gesture for him to accompany me, and he easily falls into step at my side. We stow our staffs on our horses and leave them out of sight. Then, I pick out a person at the edge of the pack of refugees. My eye alights upon a solitary old man staring blankly at a broken tent that's sagging in the middle and well on its way to collapsing entirely. “Um, excuse me, sir? Do you need help? We're with the Inquisition.”

There's a long beat of silence. I'm just starting to wonder if the man might perhaps be deaf when he eventually turns his head in our direction. “Yes,” he rasps. “but not wi’ this.” I open my mouth to object, but he raises a bony finger. “My daughter is elsewhere at the moment; she will be along shortly. And, if ye would like to assist, Inquisition, we could use many things. Shelter, clothing, healing herbs, weapons to defend ourselves, spare gold, as well as any wild game that can be hunted down. Do ye know of anything nearby?”

“I can handle plants,” a grin flits across my face. _This is definitely something I can do._ “Spindleweed grows like crazy around water and we're practically on top of this lake. Elfroot is fairly common, and I _know_ I've seen a few embrium patches nearby.”

The man's expression brightens a little, wrinkles smoothing out as new hope is offered to him. “That would be welcome,” he bows his head.

“Are there any pouches or bags you can spare?” I ask.

“Yes, 'ang on. Iris!” He lifts his voice to be heard over the crowd of refugees. A woman: blonde, muscular, and at the center of the group, looks up at the old man with narrow eyes. “Come here a minute, would ye?”

Iris approaches slowly, sizing the both of us up with her gaze. Oh, what she must see. Solas, an understated elf with a beige tunic, a green vest, footwraps, the jawbone of a wolf strung around his neck, and a pack strapped to his back. Then there's me, a rosy-cheeked young woman with hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, a set of generic Inquisition scout armor, and a nervous grin. I hope that the pair of us come across as non-threatening. The blonde keeps her eyes on us, “What's the story, Chavers?”

The old man clears his throat. “Is that any way to talk to yer own father?”

“Right,” Iris huffs, visibly restraining her fist from flying. “What's the story, _Pops?_ Who’re they?”

“Inquisition,” he informs her. “The girl here's apparently a specialist on _herbs_. Wanted to know if we've got anything to store 'em in.” The man raises his eyebrows at his daughter. “Don't know about the elf, though.”

Solas tilts his head, appraising the situation. “I am no one of great import. I simply assist her,” he gestures dismissively toward me.

I open my mouth to correct him and say that _No. This is Solas, the Inquisition’s arcane advisor and one of the only people on the whole damned continent that actually knows what the hell is going on around here. Also he's the closest thing to a god this world has so…_ Solas gives me a sharp look and an imperceptibly small shake of his head. _A warning._

_He doesn't even know what I'm going to say!_

_He doesn't need to. Probably has been around you enough by now to think you should quit while you're ahead._

“Don't sound like you're from around here,” the blonde notes.

“Well,” I shrug, “That's because we aren't. The Inquisition recruits from all over Thedas. I hail from Ostwick and my friend here is from a village farther north. Emerald Graves, I think.”

“You said you're herbalists, right?” her green eyes sparkle. “What do you know about the Blue Speckled Dragonsnout?”

“The blue speckled what now?” I raise an eyebrow. I don't remember this being a quest in-game so I have no real prior knowledge to work with.

“The Blue Speckled Dragonsnout. It's a bright red flower with blue spots inside the petals.”

“Okay…?” Pretty sure that plant isn't in the book Adan gave me. It's either very uncommon or not at all relevant to the average alchemist. Maybe both. “Why’s it important?”

“Well, you see, it's an extremely rare flower with almost miraculous healing ability. We don't...well… we don't have much to offer in the way of payment, but Ford over there said he saw one in a clearing a good way up the river. If you can get us some helping herbs, I'll get 'im to draw up a map for you.”

“Oh,” I wave her away. “That's really not necessary.”

“I insist.” Iris takes a step closer, eyes glinting in a way that might have been threatening were these different circumstances.

“If you're sure…” I trail off, uncertain.

“It would be best to get started now, I think,” Solas jumps in. “We can discuss this on our return.”

“As you say, elf,” the green-eyed woman nods. “I'll fetch you some spare bags then.” She strides away, murmuring to some of the other refugees and returning with three medium sized pouches. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” I smile, taking the bags from her and already retreating back to the horses with Solas. Together, we make our way into the woods, so different from the dense pine forests of my home. “So… What are you thinking, Solas?”

The elven man, previously wrapped up in his own thoughts, glances over at me. “I do not know if I trust them.”

“Solas,” I say, a little shocked. “They're refugees who've just had their livelihoods stolen from them. Cut 'em some slack, will you?”

His mouth twists into a scowl. “Indeed. All of that, and not a teary eye among them.”

I roll my eyes. “People have different ways of dealing with grief. All we need to do is gather a few herbs.”

“I am not saying I am not willing to assist them,” he gives me a look. “I am only recommending caution.”

“My dear Solas. Have you even met me? Caution is my middle name.”


	26. Two Bros Picking Herbs in the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet religion convo ahead (might be a pretty dry chapter to some people but idk I find different religions and lack thereof fascinating)

“The Emerald Graves.” Solas muses aloud after a good deal of silence. “An interesting location, and not at all located in the north. That area lies on the western side of the Frostback mountains, in Orlais.” We have walked together along winding trail after winding trail, on foot rather than mounts to allow easy access to herbs.

“Shit,” I groan. _If I hadn't been trying to combine Solas’ bullshit story with my own bullshit story, everything would've been fine._ “I wasn't even thinking about that! I _knew_ that the Dales were in Orlais! That's, like, a Really Big Thing. Halamshiral! The Winter Palace! Celene and Briala and their feud over what should come of the elves that live there! Why did that slip my mind? Kill me!”

He shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Why did you tell those humans that I hailed from there? And that you come from Ostwick? I would not have thought you a woman of the Free Marches.”

“Hmm,” I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet. “I don't know. I guess it just sort of made thematic sense to me at the time?” I trail off, aware of how stupid that sounds. To my surprise, however, Solas dips his head, quietly signalling that I continue. “Well, the Dales have a lot of elven history, right? The most of any area except where Elvhenan used to be, and I _think_ that's mostly in the Tevinter Imperium. Arlathan Forest and all that jazz? Anyway, I figured there might be some neat places in the Emerald Graves that you'd want to visit.”

“I see,” the corner of his mouth curls upward.

Cautiously, I continue. “And when it comes to my being from Ostwick, it's as simple as knowing a few people from there.”

_Every Trevelyan Inquisitor I've ever made, in fact._

“I see,” pale eyes flicking over to me, Solas presses his lips together. “And from where did you actually originate?”

“Denerim.” My reply is immediate. That's what Josephine had put on her registration papers, so that's what I'm sticking with. _I wonder, if you actually went to Denerim, would you still find that guy who screams about fine dwarven crafts straight from Orzammar? He was the highlight of Origins, honestly._

_Is that what's important right now?_

_Yes. I live for that guy._

“Denerim,” Solas repeats, skepticism oozing from the word. “And they teach, what was it, CPR? As well as that other language you speak?”

I scramble to amend my story. “Well, I just sorta say I'm from Denerim. It's a city I know fairly well, and I could probably navigate Redcliffe pretty decently, too.” _If the game maps are anything to go by, that is._ I scratch at the back of my head, not really wanting to make eye contact with him. “Where I'm really from? I'll likely never be able to return to it. I have no friends. I have no family. I have no ties. If the Inquisition were not around, I have no idea where I'd be.”

_Safe in my bed, or a library, or a laboratory, content with my first world luxuries._

_Or… Maybe none of those places. Maybe I'd still be here, but without the security of future events and a powerful organization at my back. Soon-to-be powerful, anyhow._

_But man...home._ It's a place I hadn't thought about much outside of dreams or nights spent awake and alone under a blanket of unfamiliar stars. It's a place I had _forced_ myself not to think about. The more I dwell upon Thedas’ lack of air conditioning, indoor plumbing, the internet, or electronics of any sort, the more I feel a pit of longing deep in my chest for the comforts of modern America.

Not just that. I miss my mother and sister. I miss my pleasant yellow house in the suburbs. My apartment. My friends. The theatre. Hell, I miss writing my weekly lab reports. Being able to pop in a movie and sink into the cushions of a couch. I miss coffee, showers, comfortable shoes, cars, and being able to just call someone on the other side of the country on a whim. I miss living in a place that isn't an active war zone.

I miss living a life that doesn't reek of sweat and death.

It all crashes over me in a stifling tidal wave of emotion. My chest seizes up and my throat tightens. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes but I scrub them away before they see the light of day.

No matter how many times I repeat it to myself, it is hard to come to terms with the fact that I am completely alone in this world. Not only in the ways that everyone is alone, through thought and memory and feeling, but by cultural identity and past experiences unable to be equated to those of the land I now trek through.

_I'm alone._

_I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm alone I'm al—_

* * *

 

The two of us walk together in amicable silence for some time. At least, that is what I believe at first. Then I look closer at the woman. Her movements are stiff, blue eyes hazy and unfocused, taking in no details but dirt beneath dragging boots. Even her warm aura has been withdrawn, wrapped tightly around her being.

“Handmaiden, are you well?” I am surprised at the worry within my words. _Good, allow her to believe that you care._

 _Can you truthfully say that you do not?_ A voice whispers at the back of my mind, goading.

_Of course. That is not a matter for debate._

The back of my calf, still wrapped in bandaging, twinges slightly, almost as a reminder. Those are bandages that she had wrapped. Proof that _she_ , at least, cares.

_No matter how much you care or do not, she does. Your well-being appears to be a concern of hers._

_Not all things should be taken at face value._

Rosalind shakes herself out of her stupor, startled. “Yeah, I'm fine.” She searches for another conversational topic. “You called me Handmaiden. Why? My real name's not good enough for you anymore?”

“The Herald's Handmaiden. That _is_ what you are, is it not?” A feeble attempt at humor.

“Ha,” she doesn't smile. The sound instead has a more brittle edge to it. “I'd rather you just called me a heathen or a sham or something. At least that'd be closer to the truth.”

That catches my attention. “You do not believe yourself to be an agent of Andraste?”

“Solas,” she rolls her eyes, “there's not an ounce of me that's actually a believer in the Maker, Andraste, or her mystical mabari etcetera etcetera, so why the hell would I want to become one of the religion's most prominent spiritual leaders?”

Her words, flippant as they are, send something of a shock through me. “You are not Andrastian? Then…”

“Then what?” she kneels to pluck the fiery petals from an embrium plant.

“You attended a place of higher learning, likely the University of Orlais. I assumed your family must have had Chantry ties, considering that yours is not a noble house. Clarke, was it not? What purpose did such an education serve?”

She lets out a stilted laugh. “I used to ask myself that question far more often than was healthy.”

“And yet you will not answer it.”

“No, I—wait. Why are you so certain that I went to college? What would you know of it?” Her lips are parted and her blue eyes are blown impossibly wide. _Why would this concern her so? Perhaps she truly is a member of the nobility, operating under an alias?_

_Oh. I see._

_That is knowledge I procured from observing her dreams, not something I should be aware of. A deflection is in order. Flattery. Hyperbole._ “My apologies, Rosalind. It was simply the result of observation. You have proven yourself to be remarkably intelligent. I had assumed that was the result of a life of education, and rightly so.”

Her face softens and her aura flickers warmly, reaching out with tendrils of energy to press at the boundaries of my own. “There are different ways that intelligence can manifest itself, you know. But you're not wrong. I wanted to learn as much as I could about the world we live in, I suppose. There are so many different countries, cultures, and general things to know, that I couldn't keep myself away.”

While her words ring true, the situation itself strikes me as wholly unrealistic. “I sincerely doubt that the University of Orlais would speak with all honesty on the affairs of other cultures, no matter what reforms Celene has put into place.”

Kneeling to pluck leaves from the stem of an elfroot, she quips, “You'd likely be correct in that assumption, too.”

“Hm.” _She must have gone_ somewhere. _She just admitted it not a moment ago…_

 _This whole matter is unimportant. Irrelevant. Back to the original question._ “If you are not Andrastian, then what are you?”

“Ah,” she ducks her head, tugging distractedly at a strand of her hair. “I suppose you could say I'm an atheist.”

“An atheist?” _So many_ _interesting words._

“I don't believe in any gods or goddesses or what-have-you,” she clarifies. _Oh, if she only knew who I once was…_ The idea draws a chuckle from me even as her cheeks flush bright pink. “I was actually very devoutly religious as a child, but there came to be a time where I had more questions than my religion could properly answer. So here I am.”

“So you _did_ come from a religious family,” I confirm.

“Yes…?” Her voice rises in pitch as she trails off. “Kind of?”

“Were they, or were they not? If you do not feel comfortable divulging—”

“It's not that I'm not comfortable _,”_ she cuts me off, “it's just that I don't know how to say what I'm thinking.” She sighs. “My parents themselves were kinda religious, but they were content to just let me do my own thing.” She squats to examine a tangled patch of vines. “The people in my home town, though, not so much. They could be, well, I think the word to describe them would be _vicious_.” The woman shudders. Her arms tighten around herself. “Not all the time, but enough to teach me to be quiet."

 _They... What? Humans._ Shemlen _. Always the same. They attack what is different and try to eliminate it. Absolutely abhorrent, the lot of them._

My voice, when I do speak, is frigid. “What did they do to you, these people? Did they hurt you?”

“Oh, no,” she touches the pads of her fingers against her lips. “Nothing that bad. Not really. I'm probably acting like a child right now.”

“You are certain?” She is obviously unsettled. Her breathing is steady in a way that suggests she is forcing her lungs to work, rather than legitimately calm.

“It's fine.” She looks down at her hands. “I think we have enough here to take back to the refugees.”

I take a moment's pause to allow her time to continue speaking. She does not. “Shall we return?”

A brief smile flits across her mouth, but her eyes have returned to the dirt beneath her boots. Her mind is elsewhere. Whatever distraction I had hoped to provide her no longer appears to be working. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “That sounds great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely dudes and dudettes! Thank you all for your continued support in my fic-ing endeavors! I appreciate every ounce of feedback you guys provide, and while I'm not so great at replying to things (really sorry about that yikes), I do read and cherish every comment. 
> 
> ~Egg


	27. The Blue Speckled Dragonsnout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you realize you've gone eighteen days without posting a chapter

“Here you go,” my voice is soft as I pass off the pouches of herbs to Iris, the leader of the remaining Lake Luthias refugees. “Elfroot, embrium, and spindleweed, as per your request.”

“Oh,” the blonde, who had until then been bowed over a map in intense study, takes a quick peek inside each of the bags. She mutters a curt, “thank you,” gesturing toward a burly ex-farmer kind of man. He palms them, and they vanish into the folds of a nug-skin cloak. “You've done us a great service, Inquisition. We appreciate it.”

“They're just herbs, but you're welcome anyway.” I peel my lips back in a crudely attempted smile, but it falls flat. On the walk back here, the events of the past few weeks had caught up to me all at once. My limbs are as good as lead, and, honestly, I just want to curl up on a bedroll and go to sleep. “Where do you think Kaaras and the others are, Solas? The sooner we can get back to Haven, the better.”

_Then it's on to Val Royeaux. We'll pick up Sera (ugh) and Vivienne (double ugh) and have our first encounter with the mage Templar big decision thing._

_Mmm. That's something to think about. Which way do you think Kaaras swings?_

_No idea. I doubt she has some secret chip on her shoulder in regard to mages, although saying she'd go all in for the Redcliffe rebels might be presumptuous._

_Whatever the case may be, we have more pressing issues._

_Right, yeah. Sure._

“Wait,” Iris’s head jerks up and her hand darts forward to grip my arm. Green eyes bore into mine. “You can't go!”

I look at her incredulously, not prying her fingers away even though the urge is definitely present. “I mean I _can_ go, physically. Is there a particular reason you don't want me to?”

“We haven't repaid you! We would be dishonorable indeed if we could provide nothing in return for your help!”

“No, really, you're fine.” She lets go of me just as abruptly as she'd latched on. I breathe a mental sigh of relief. “There's nothing to be repaid. I was just doing my job, ma'am.”

“Our companions will need us to return to them soon. I believe we shall be on our way now,” Solas’ voice is frigid. His hand snakes around my wrist and he tugs me in the opposite direction.

“Solas—?” I turn his name into a question, asking a few dozen things all at once. What he doesn't say, he conveys through body language and aura. _Observe the situation and be cautious._

“Wait, please. Just—ah—just wait. FORD! Get over here!”

“What do you need, Iris?” A wiry, olive-skinned man with dark hair slicked into a ponytail jogs up to the three of us.

“The map, Ford! Have you got the map on you?

“What map?”

“The one to the flower!”

“Oh, _that_ map!” His laugh peals through the air. “Fine, sure thing. You want me to show them?”

“Yes,” she hisses. “What do I pay you for?”

“You _don't_ pay me,” Ford points out. “We're refugees.”

Iris makes a noise of disgust, throws her hands in the air, and stalks away.

_She and Cassandra would get along famously._

“Right then, you two!” The man grins, revealing a mouth full of surprisingly straight teeth. “Come along, come along!” Ford starts off on a path into the woods, wordlessly intimating that we follow suit. I start after him, then look to Solas. He tilts his head, seeming to say, _I do not like this, but I will accompany you._

“Where is that flower, exactly? I'm sure Solas and I could find it on our own.”

“No, no,” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Iris was very adamant that one of us take you there personally. Wouldn't want you getting lost and having nothing to show for your good deeds, right? It's not long. Maybe an hour on foot?”

 _Guess there's no getting out of it._ “Fine. Lead the way.”

* * *

 

“So, Inquisition, what is it that you do exactly?”

Ford's question brings me out of my reverie. His dark eyes are keenly interested. “The Inquisition? Well… first priority is closing the Breach. After that, track down whoever destroyed the Conclave,” I keep my eyes fixed pointedly away from Solas, “and bring as much peace to as wide an area as we can.”

“You think you'll make that much of a difference?” he scoffs. “Another arm of the Chantry isn't what Thedas needs.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You're right about that, so I guess it's a good thing the Inquisition _isn't_ another arm of the Chantry. They actually kind of hate us. The Inquisition as a whole, I mean. We're people. People like me and Solas.” I feel the elf’s gaze flick over to me at the mention of his name. “And people like you, if you felt like joining up. If you've got any skills, great. And if you haven't, then I'm sure the Inquisition would find a place for you regardless. Has to beat wandering around the Hinterlands at fate’s mercy.”  

Ford soaks in my words a moment. Then he snorts. “It makes sense they'd take in someone like me if they're putting knife-ears and ox-men into the field.”

“Hey now,” I let a falsely saccharine quality enter my voice. “If you're going to insult someone, insult them based off of what's shitty on the inside, not what's painfully obvious on the outside. Find the chinks in their armor and then ruthlessly exploit them. Where's the fun in anything less?”

Now Solas’ pale eyes are _drilling_ into the back of my head. I can tell.

Ford chuckles to himself. “I'm sure you're a fun one at the taverns, angry girl.”

“Ross.”

“Whatever.”

_I can't wait to get that stupid flower and get outta here._

* * *

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I screech. Solas and I stand back to back, facing a group of fifteen bandits. All armed. All armored. At the head of the lot stand Iris and her “father”.

“You didn't _really_ think that there was such a thing as the Blue Speckled Dragonsnout, did you?” Iris sneers. In her hand is a morningstar that she's swinging in slow, precise circles.

“ _No!_ I _didn't!_ You just wasted my time! I gathered some shit for you out of the kindness of my heart and I could be taking a really good nap _right now!_ Why the _fuck_ would you care about ambushing us this much _?”_

“The original refugees very kindly relinquished their clothing to us, and then we sold them off to some northern wacko in Redcliffe a few months back. Don't know why he needed so many people, but he paid well. Really well. Now they aren't allowing anyone inside the gates, but _you're_ with the Inquisition, so—”

I cut her off. “Yeah. They're not letting us in either, so I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here.”

_Who's in Redcliffe buying people?_

_It has to be linked to Corypheus, right?_

_Maybe. What on earth would he need them for?_

_Some kind of generic blood magic ritual? I don't know._

Iris recovers quickly from the interruption. “Even if that's true, we can still sell you back to the Inquisition for ransom,” her smile is wide and feral. “I'm sure the Chantry can provide us with some compensation.”

“Iris. The Inquisition isn't a part of the Chantry. She told me that they're actually at each other's throats,” Ford puts in. If I weren't focused on the energy hidden in the space around me, I probably would have been beaming at him.

“Oh, Ford, you need to get your head on straight. The girl's either lying or she's stupid. Look at her armor! She can't be anyone of rank!”

 _Lying?_ My teeth clench. _Stupid, sure. I'll accept that one. But lying? No._ I shuffle back until I feel the heat radiating from Solas’ back. It's a surprising comfort.

“And, suppose they are indeed enemies of the Chantry?” Iris continues, oblivious. “That's even better. You know what they're like. They would pay a pretty sum in order to have a couple of subjects with which to make...examples of. Poor little defenseless Inquisition goons. Stupid of your armored friends to leave you on your own...”

“Kaaras.” I widen my legs to settle into a crude battle stance. “They were looking for you, or, well, the bandits. They'll find you.”

“Fat chance. We know how to cover our tracks.”

“I'm not so sure about that, Iris,” Ford shakes his head.

“Listen, Ford, this would go a whole lot easier if you just listened for once instead of—”

While Iris had carried on with her droning, Solas and I had been intermingling our auras with one another’s, relishing in the tingle of energy and pooling of power. We’ve long since taken stock of our enemies. Six archers, three sword 'n board fighters, one with a greatsword, Ford with undrawn daggers, Chavers clutching a gnarled staff, and Iris expertly twirling her morningstar at her side.

In a whirl of motion, I've summoned a weak barrier around the both of us and Solas casts a few well-aimed bolts of ice that stick the archers’ fingers to their bow strings, rendering them temporarily incapacitated. I pull up a raging inferno beneath the feet of the four warriors, and Solas seals it inside a much stronger barrier of his own. I look away from the screams and raging flames. That leaves the archers and the main three still standing, and, while we've only just begun, my strength is already flagging considerably.

Ford scrambles backward at the sight of mages doing battle. Then, within seconds, he’s sprinting away through the undergrowth.

“You son of a bitch! Get back here!”

But Ford is gone, and her message goes unheeded.

Iris, with a crazed shriek, swings the morningstar overhead and slams it ruthlessly into my barrier. My teeth grit together under the strain. The barrier holds, just barely, but I know it won't be able to take another hit like that again.

“Solas,” I grunt, unable to say anything more as Chavers hurls his own burst of ice magic toward us. Lacking the ability to stop it, the transparent shield shatters, and there's suddenly nothing standing in the way of Iris’s spiked flail and our very squishy bodies.

Moving with equal parts battle-fury and grace, Solas summons bolt after bolt of chain lightning that arc between each of our remaining opponents, maintaining the mana flow until there's not a single enemy left standing.

I have a gut feeling that a normal mage shouldn't have been able to hold a lightning spell for as long as Solas did, but I don't remark upon it.

Instead, I just stand there, silent, staring at the now-dead thugs lying in the grass. Then Solas quietly approaches, handing me the staff that had, until very recently, belonged to Chavers. “You could use the practice,” he murmurs before suggesting that we set out in search of our companions. I agree, and we clamber into saddles, headed away from the charred and bloodied corpses in our wake.


	28. Tales and Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise suckers! Two chapters in two days!

There's an issue that arises soon after we meet up again with Kaaras and company, and that issue has primarily to do with tents. There are only three. One that Kaaras and I had shared, one for Solas and Varric, and one that Cassandra had all to herself. Only now, there's the question of what to do with Blackwall. He, ever the gentleman, insists that he can sleep on the ground next to the fire rather than share a tent with a woman, but Kaaras won't stand for it when there's a perfectly good space available.

“Blackwall shouldn't have to share with a chick if it makes him that uncomfortable,” I point out.

“That would be preferable,” the gruff soldier agrees.

Cassandra narrows her eyes, appearing rather uncertain. “This is... inappropriate, is it not? I fear Josephine would have our heads if she found out.”

She's not wrong, but I wave her off anyway. “Listen. I personally couldn't care less about sleeping next to a guy, and I doubt you do either, Kaaras.” I take the bobbing of her horns as a sign of agreement. “The real question is, does it bother either of you?” This is directed toward Solas and Varric.

Varric shifts uneasily, and, as he sometimes does when he's nervous, he fiddles around with the trigger and reloading mechanisms of his beloved crossbow. “I could in a pinch, sure, but I'm a faithful man, Bluebird. I wouldn't want Bianca here feeling like she's been demoted to second fiddle.”

I shrug, acquiescing. “I guess it's not that big a deal right now. I'm just thinking of later, when we're in the Frostbacks and it's colder and windier than here. All of us are going to want tents to shield us then.”

“Is the cold really all you are thinking of?” Cassandra laughs. Her face softens with the sound, and it's a remarkable transformation to witness.

I stick my tongue out at her in a teasing manner, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. “Yes, yes it is. What are _you_ thinking about?”

She flushes beet red and says nothing.

“Hey,” Kaaras gestures at Solas, “What about you? You alright sharing a tent with either of us, even though it's _inappropriate_?”

The apostate shrugs from atop his horse. “I can think of no qualms with the notion.”

I bite my lip to keep myself from immediately volunteering to share with Solas. _We could talk for hours about the Fade and spirits and anything we wanted and…_ I sigh. That sounds lovely.

“Well if you're not going to say anything, Ross, I'll make my decision. Us warrior buddies can sleep together!” Kaaras declares, riding up next to Cassandra and playfully punching her on the arm.

I wave at Solas. “Guess that means mage buddies together?” Then, in an obnoxiously loud stage whisper, I say, “I know it's going to be _really_ hard, but you'll have to repress the urge to ravish me in the night.”

A minute shift comes over Solas’ aura. It becomes softer around the edges, a little more warm yellow in the green.

“Fear not. My youthful days of pawing at skirts have long passed.” His smile is toothy and his blue-lavender eyes crinkle around the edges. _Why is he so adorable right now? Sheesh._

Varric laughs, tugging his pony’s reins and drawing back toward the elf. “Chuckles, I don't know how to tell you this, but I really _can't_ picture you as a young person, much less one with a pretty lady on each arm.”

Solas, true to his nickname, chuckles softly. “I assure you, I was, although it was long ago.”

“Hmph. Yeah. I ain't buying it.”

Cassandra's face, meanwhile, has flushed the brightest red I've ever seen. “I believe that this conversation should cease. Immediately.”

“By your leave, my lady Seeker,” Varric winks at her. “I don't know about you, but I think I'm in the mood for a tale or two, just to while away the time. So... Warden Blackwall, was it?”

The aforementioned Warden’s head jerks up. He hadn't been paying much attention before. “Yes?”

“Tell us about yourself! What brings a dashing hero of old to the drear of the Hinterlands?”

“I told you,” Blackwall says, stiff. “I was in the area recruiting. Those weren't the only refugees in Ferelden, even though those particular refugees weren't actually...refugees.”

Varric, keen as he is, notices immediately how uncomfortable Blackwall has become and switches tack accordingly. “You know, sometimes it's hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that Hawke came to Kirkwall as a refugee.”

“Hawke? The name seems familiar. Why do I feel I've heard it before?”

The dwarf clutches at his chest in mock horror. “You mean you've never read _Tale of the Champion?”_

“Should I have?”

“I would tell you to get your hands on a copy as fast as possible, but you've got the best font of knowledge on all things Champion of Kirkwall sitting right in front of you, so… I suppose our story starts with the Fifth Blight and the decimation of a little town called Lothering.”

Dark eyebrows raise incredulously. “How long will this take, exactly?”

“Best you settle in now, Hero. You mustn't rush _perfection_."

* * *

 

“Solas,” Rosalind pulls me aside once we have made camp. I bid that she continue, and she does. “Thank you, for today I mean. You were right. I should have been more careful and I'm sorry we got into that situation with the not-refugees. But. I'm also happy that you stayed around because, well, otherwise it might've been a whole lot worse so...yeah. Thank you.” she pauses, tugging at the hem of her tunic.

My mouth quirks upward. “You are very welcome. Is that all you wished to tell me?”

“Actually. Since you're here, I, um, had a question. About you being a Dreamer and all?” Her eyes dart to mine, shining with curiosity.

My head tilts to the side, inviting her to go on. “Continue.”

“Well. Ever since I, um, killed that Templar… I've had...nightmares.” She shuffles back and forth. “And, the first time that I slept peacefully in the weeks after was when you had been shot in the leg with that poisoned arrow, so— wait. Sorry, that came out _really_ wrong, didn't it.” She takes a deep breath in and releases it in a puff of air. “What I meant was that I think sleeping near you had some kind of effect on my dreams in the Fade. Is that... possible? Or am I just imagining things?”

She _had_ slept through that night at my bedside. A display of solidarity, and very possibly one of friendship. “The physical world does have some bearing on what occurs in the Fade,” I inform her. “Spirits with malicious intent steer clear of whatever areas I wander. They do not deem me worth the trouble when there is easier prey to be found elsewhere.”

She crosses her arms, arching an amused brow. “Are you calling me _prey_?”

I flash my most charming smile. “Perhaps. There are many wolves in the world. It is best to be wary of them.”

“In your dreams, buster,” she cackles, her bright eyes glittering with humor. “But it's weird, right? In the days since you were attacked, the nightmares have come back, although to a lesser extent, even though we've been sleeping in the same campsite. I thought it was a proximity thing, but is it more than that?”

I briefly consider the answer to her question. “Much of the time, I keep my dreams warded so that no one of this plane can easily wander into them. It is possible that when I was incapacitated by the poison, my ability to properly shield myself from view was impaired.”

“Is there a way that you could…teach me? How to ward my dreams?”

I ponder that for a moment, considering. If I assist her, it will likely be more difficult to visit them in the future.

_I have much more experience than she. I could work around whatever meager defences she might build._

_Or you could leave the girl in peace. She has done nothing to warrant your suspicion._

“Yes. Of course,” I nod, gratified to see how quickly she lights up at the prospect. “I would like to begin teaching once we arrive in Haven. And, on top of that, we must focus on your fighting with a staff. It is truly remarkable that you have held your own for this long, as inept as you are.” She opens her mouth to argue, but I interrupt her. “For now, I will ward your dreams for you. I wish you might have asked before tonight.”

“Thanks. I...appreciate that you’re so willing to help me. With the way things have gone, I’m honestly surprised I haven’t been killed and left to rot in a ditch somewhere.” This last is said flippantly, with a toss of her hair and a shrug.

“I cannot tell whether or not you speak in jest.”

The woman smirks, though I can tell that her mind is adrift elsewhere. “What? Dying is a possibility, after all. I don’t have the strongest body, the most ruthless personality, nor am I the bearer of the keenest wit on the continent. I have a humongous target on my back from multiple parties, though not so much as Kaaras. Overall, my death is an outcome that shouldn’t be discounted.”

“Your death, does the prospect not frighten you?”

“Eh,” she tilts her head in consideration. “Some days, sure. Mostly it’s the method that worries me. Will my throat be slit in the night? Will I find poison laced in my chalice? Get crushed by a falling boulder? Drown in a freezing lake? Will I be helpless, or standing tall on a battlefield? Will it be sudden and over quickly, or drawn out over a long period of time so that I may feel my life leaching out of me?”

Although the swiftness of her answer indicates that she has thought through this exact thing many times before, her face displays no worry. Instead, she wears an expression of calm contemplation, like she speaks of the evening's weather.

I cough lightly, “It is a sad thing, I think, that you should have to worry about such things. In the days of Elvhenan, you would not have...no. Even then, you would have been a quickling doomed to a life of struggle and a meaningless death.”

“Pfft.” Snickering, she stretches her arms over her head, releasing a small sigh of satisfaction when the joints pop. “Thanks, Solas. You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

“What I mean is that if you were not...human, I believe you might have been a formidable figure among the ranks of the Elvhen nobles. From what I have seen of them in the Fade, a woman of your stature would have had suitors lined up at her door day and night for eons until she chose a bond-partner. And, even then, they may not cease.”

_She is so easy to picture: an Elvhen woman with steely blue eyes, a wicked grin, and ears that curve into delicate points. Draped in fabrics of a silvery sheen and armed with a quick wit, she might have made a worthy ally._

_Or a worthy enemy._

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.” Her small smile is enough to tell me that my comment has not inadvertently offended. “Good night, Solas. Sweet dreams.”

“To you as well,” I sigh, content to wait and watch the stars for the next half hour or so.

Lingering at the threshold of the tent for a few moments, she glances at me. “I’ll tell you, Solas, about those suitors? They’d all be real disappointed, real fast. You have no idea.”

“I somehow have difficulty believing that.”

Ross stares at the ground, completely stiff. “There are... _things_ about me that would make me pretty undesirable as a partner.” Then, without ceremony, she vanishes beneath the flaps of the tent.


	29. Secrets Almost out in the Open

After our time in the Hinterlands, I'm almost glad to return to the familiar sight of Haven. At least there won't be any bears trying to sneak up on us. _And_ , I think to myself, _we're one step further into the main quest line._ The next major things to worry about are the journey to Val Royeaux and the Storm Coast, then the encounters with the Templars or mages respectively.

_Then the fall of Haven, the Journey to Skyhold, Adamant, Halamshiral, and...shit. Things are going to get...really bad really fast. Fuck._

_Should I change anything? Warn someone about the Grey Wardens at Adamant? That Duchess Florianne is the assassin?  That the Qunari have no intention of maintaining their alliance?_

_Maybe? No. Not now. Not yet._

_But… What about Stanley? I know it's been a while, but he had some BS about saving Thedas, right?_

_Um...no… The only things he technically talked about were stopping the Dread Wolf’s plan and eliminating the Blight. First one, I've got some things bouncing around in the ol’ brainy-boo. That second one though…_

_I don't know. I might have a few ideas._

_Really? That's remarkable when you consider that we're the same bloody person and I don't have a fucking clue where to start._

_Just imagine, Rosalind, what we could do once we're set up in Skyhold with access to a certain Arcanist._

_Dagna? Oh, shit. She would definitely be able to help. With my knowledge of futuristic technology and her ability to create, we could change the world._

_I just hope the Hero of Ferelden helped her get to a Circle in this world state._

The blustering wind cuts through my clothing, slicing at my skin with sharp blades. I contract in upon myself, wrapping my arms over my chest and making my body small in the vain hope that such a measure might help me avoid the brunt of the wind’s icy claws.

Kaaras goes off to the War Room with a brusque goodbye tossed over one shoulder. Cassandra departs with her. Blackwall takes all of our horses to the stables, striking up a conversation with Harritt the blacksmith. And, naturally, Varric's first stop is the Singing Maiden. That leaves Solas and I lingering together.

“It appears that we must part ways,” he notes, although he has made no move to leave my side.  

I allow a layer of sarcasm to filter into my tone. “ _Must_ we?”

“Yes,” he says. “But you should come and see me tonight.”

“So brazen, Solas! I don't know what to say.” The spike of warmth through his aura is pleasant, as is the redness in the tips of his ears.

_Babe, you have got to stop flirting. It'll get you into trouble one day, I swear on Andraste's saggy left tit._

_It's not like it would be the first time._

He shakes his head, clarifying. “I want to be near you in order to properly guide you to the Fade.”

“Oh, sure,” I put a hand on my hip. “I bet you tell that to _all_ the girls.”

“No,” his eyes turn sharp and his voice drops abruptly to a lower timbre. He looks surprised, as though the word had popped out of his mouth of its own volition. “I would not offer to do such a thing for just anyone.”

_Oh. Fuck. Wow. He—he actually looks serious. Why?_

Sucking in a shaky breath, I stare at the ground. This will be easier if I'm not forced to look at the man. He's so...forceful. No. I'm not sure that's the right word. Perhaps ‘intense’ is a better fit? “Right,” I mutter, “Because I'm _special,_ is that it?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Solas smiles, although it is a fleeting expression. “Well, you are certainly unlike any other human I have encountered.”

_This guy's literally planning to kill people because he's already made the decision that they are acceptable sacrifices for his schemes, and he has the gall to say that I'm unlike them. What does he know? He's been awake for what, a year?_

I don't know why, but that thought _really_ ticks me off.

“It makes sense that you'd think I'm different,” I deadpan. “The fact that I’m capable of having actual thoughts, and on good days can even engage in conversation? It's a novel concept. Truly a rarity.”

We’ve passed through the front gates and it's near time for me to go left and him to go right. The elf hums, thoughtful. “Have I caused you offence?”

I take a few deep breaths and, when I release the air, I feel lighter and focused enough to temper myself a bit. “No. You haven't, actually. I didn’t mean to snap at you. That was rude and uncalled for. I think the cold must be getting to me.”

“Does my belief that you are unique bother you?”

Grudgingly, I mutter, “A little bit.”

“Why?” His eyes are curious, probing.

_Let’s not get into the nitty-gritty here. We can't give away too much._

“I don’t think you’ve been around enough people to be able to make a claim like that. Not much socializing available to an apostate wandering the forests. Like, yes, I am physically unique, and my memories and life-experience are one of a kind, but that applies to everyone. It’s somewhat paradoxical if you ask me. Comes right back around to the whole ‘if everyone is special then no one is’ thing.”

_Or you can just ignore me. Full steam ahead, if that's what you really want._

Solas tilts his head, considering my words. “An interesting premise. But, you forget, I did not say that _everyone_ is special. That is something that you came up with.” He half smiles. “I think that I will continue to stand by the notion that _you_ in particular are not of ordinary breed.”

I cross my arms, shifting my weight to one leg. “I’d say that there are a few things that are unusual about me.” _Like literally being from a different time dimension._ “But at my core, I've got all the good and bad shit that accompanies every sentient being: courage, cowardice, curiosity, determination, and fickleness. When you get down to it, Solas, we two are not all that different. And, quite frankly, it sounds to me like you're just scared of that possibility.”

That catches him off guard. “To what are you referring to?”

I meet his gaze calmly. “You're so aloof. You distance yourself. I think you're afraid that if you look too closely at other people you'll find that they're much more _real_ than you’ve previously imagined. You'll find things in people that will remind you of either yourself or of people you have once respected. I promise that if you give others a chance, there are some that may surprise you. Are there shitty people in the world? Yes. There always will be. It's a fact of life. But you really mustn't let the bad apples spoil the bunch.”

There is a beat of silence where Solas looks away. I feel a pang of regret at that, but then he speaks. “You came into your magic at an older age, only after being physically in the Fade. Your family was wealthy, and yet not wealthy enough to be recognizable. You have received some sort of schooling, although you are neither ignorant nor pretentious. And you frequently use words, phrases, and actions that are incongruous with the typical Thedosian. Do forgive me if I find you intriguing.”

“And _you_ are a plainly dressed elf who comports himself with the utmost confidence, speaks of unimaginable wonders found in the Fade, and has come from neither alienage, nor Dalish tribe, nor Circle of Magi. We're both fuckin’ weird, okay? It would probably be best for the both of us if we don't dig too deeply into each other's pasts.”

_Rosalind._

His jaw hangs partway open, eyes now round at saucers. “Do you... believe that I would lie to you?”

_Don't answer that._

I snort. I can't help it. “Well, you certainly don't tell the whole truth.” His mouth snaps closed as I continue, “It's fine, dude. Don't worry about it. I'm in the same boat. I've not really been the most honest person in the world as of late.”

“I see."

_Ross, I think this has gone on long enough. This is not the time for this conversation._

_Really? When, then? Please tell me oh omnipotent Brain Voice._

_I don't know._ Never _sounds pretty nice right now._

“I wouldn't say that I _lie_ per se,” I make a calming motion with my hands, even though Solas looks dangerously calm already. “It's just that I share some things and keep other things to myself. Not so different from you, I'd imagine.”

“I see.” His eyes slide shut, as though looking at me physically pains him. “And the idea that I might be... lying. What purpose would such a thing serve me?”

Shrugging, I mumble, “Solas, it's fine. I just realize that there are things that you consistently avoid giving straight answers about, like where you come from and how you know the things you know. ‘I saw it in the Fade’ doesn't quite cut it for me. That's it. No big deal.”

“I come from a small village that you likely would not have heard of, and while you yourself have walked in the Fade, you are only aware of a small fraction of what it is capable of.”

“Solas,” I level my gaze at him. “Just forget I mentioned anything.”

His smile turns wry. “That would be an impressive feat indeed, were I to accomplish it.”

I wonder how badly I might've just fucked up.

Thankfully, an excuse for me to leave arrives in the form of Reya, waving for me to join her. “When do you want me to stop by for the dream thingy?”

A few moments pass as he pauses long enough to gather his thoughts. “Will an hour or so after supper be amenable to you?”

“Sure,” I agree, thanking my lucky stars that he'll still see me. “I'll see you then.” He nods, moving to take his leave, but I falter. Too many things have gone unsaid here. “Solas,” my fingertips flutter over his shoulder, just shy of physical contact, “I apologise if I came across as callous. I still very much want to be your friend. I think there are things about us that are really really similar, y'know?”

“It is no crime to tell me what you believe to be true, even if you are wrong.” He says, although his voice is strange. Like a stained glass window, shattered, but still allowing pools of mottled color to spill out through the leftover shards. “I will see you tonight. Good day.”

Then he vanishes among the bustle of Haven. "Sure, yeah,” I mutter to myself.

* * *

 

The girl.

Does she know?

She cannot. It is impossible.

Still. Even if she is not fully aware of my identity, she has made it abundantly clear that she finds me to be a suspicious person.

_This is freeing, in a way. Knowing that she knows that I am not who I claim to be. And yet she does not press or  pry into that particular subject, although she will leave no other conversational stone unturned. She simply allows our secrets to hang in the air between us, neither here nor there._

_Tonight, when she visits, I will prepare something memorable for her. I shall see how she reacts and proceed from there on out._

_And to think, she actually tried to argue_ against _her being intriguing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah a lotta this chapter was not at all what I had intended to write but Ross just kinda... Went on a tangent...


	30. Dreaming of Thorns and Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late, dear hearts. The chapter I was on wasn't being nice so instead I wrote something completely different and I like it better than the original idea so yay!

Kaaras fills me in on the results of her meeting in the War Room. It's about what I expected. A mission to Val Royeaux to talk to the Chantry. Although, from what I understand, we're supposed to buy some new clothing, tailor-made. This is especially necessary in the case of Kaaras because her physique is so out of the norm. In her quizzy-jamas, the sleeves come midway down her forearms and the pants are almost a joke. Yeah. She doesn't actually wear them that often, preferring the comfortable and practical nature of her armor.

Besides, it's on Josephine's orders, and the idea of actually saying _no_ to the adorable Antivan woman feels criminal.

The day passes in relative slowness and, after deciding to just skip dinner, I make my way over to Solas’ home. His door swings open before I have even touched the handle. “Welcome, Rosalind.” Moving aside, he allows me to enter.

“Um, hi. Solas,” I awkwardly sidle around him. Maybe I'd feel a little less uncomfortable if the memory of our previous sort-of-but-not-really confrontation was not still fresh in my mind. “How are you?”

“Just as well as I was three hours ago,” he laughs softly, not looking nearly as agitated as I expected he might.

“That's...good,” I say, feeling exactly as agitated as I expected I might. His room hasn't changed much in our weeks of absence. The potted plant still dangles from the ceiling. His shelves are still bizarrely barren, except for the occasional Chantry nonsense. I recall enough from my in-game conversations with Dorian to know that the book situation won't be much improved within Skyhold. Maybe together we can remedy that.

“Would you like something to eat?” Solas asks, gesturing toward a table set with dark bread and two bowls of steaming soup.

_So much for skipping dinner._

I feel that it would be rude to decline, so I seat myself and force a few mouthfuls of bread down my throat. It tastes like nothing but worry and charcoal ash.

The idea of allowing Solas into my dreams, or possibly even my nightmares, is more than a little frightening. _What if I reveal more than I intend to? What if he learns of Earth, the future, or the secrets that I am definitely not supposed to know about him?_

_Whatever the case may be, Solas can't be worse than the dreams._ The friendly spirits that used to visit me had ceased doing so very recently and my nightmares have only grown in intensity. One night I'm having a slimy tongue mashed down my throat in a darkened room, the next I stand in frozen helplessness as my old Earthen friends cut pieces out of my flesh and disappear. A particularly vivid dream featured me holding a knotted bedsheet-turned-noose in my hands, moments away from wrapping it around my neck and kicking the chair beneath me out of reach.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm getting desperate.

Once I feel that I've consumed an acceptable amount, I pick my bowl up, looking around for something to wash it out with. “Where do you want me to—”

“There is no need.” Solas takes the bowl from me. “I will take care of it. Now, if you are ready, would you please lie down?”

“I'm definitely _not_ ready, but sure.” There's a beat of silence as I look around the small house. “Where, exactly?”

His mouth curls into a smirk. “My bed should suffice.”

Giving him a flat look, I protest. “Um, no. Last time was an emergency situation. I'm not taking your bed.”

“It is indeed _my_ bed, and that means that I shall do as I wish with it. Now please, lie down.”

_Hmph. Someone's feeling a tad stubborn today._

I crawl onto Solas's mattress and shove my face in his pillow. It'll be easier to fall asleep if I'm not making awkward eye contact with him the whole time. This plan isn't the most foolproof idea, as now all I can smell is elfroot and some strangely pleasant spices. _Is this what Solas would smell like if I hugged him? I wonder if he'd be super muscular or all nice and squishy. Do you think he'd even hug me back?_

_Let's quit while we're ahead, shall we?_

“Now, while you are in the Fade, a spirit may try to ensnare you within a nightmare. If that occurs, do your best to escape from it, and I will find you. If no spirit comes, then I will find you regardless, and we shall speak together.”

“Okay. Sounds cool,” I mumble into his pillow. “Any reason we can't just talk right now?”

He chuckles quietly. “Not one that _you_ would find substantial. It will be easier to simply...show you.”

Without my being completely aware of the shift, my eyelids slide closed and my breathing levels out. Allowing my mind to wander, I slip into the Fade.

* * *

 

I don't know why I'm running, just that I am.

I'm running, racing madly for my life through a snow-covered forest. For some reason I wear impractical silk slippers that crinkle up around my feet. I rip them off mid-stride like a sensible young lass. They weren't going to stop me from getting frostbite, and it's better to be able to run with a few discolored toes than not at all. I'm clothed in a very thin white shift as well and, now that the slippers are gone, it's all I have left.

Moonbeams filter through the boughs of the trees, creating a startling contrast of bright pools of light and foreboding stretches of shadow. Then, from not all that far away, the howling of wolves starts up. Or maybe they had been howling the entire time and I hadn't heard them over the pounding of my heart.

Either way, the sound spurs me onward. My arms pump furiously at my sides, aiding me in my wild and relentless flight. That is, until my foot snags on a raised tree root and I crash into a heap at the edge of an otherwise peaceful clearing.

My ankle has been wrenched to the side and pain radiates throughout my leg. I think it's already beginning to swell, actually. I won't be able to put any weight on it, and the howling of wolves is drawing closer.

_I need to focus. Focus._

Breaths escape me in plumes of white and my hands sink into the snow as I struggle to flip myself onto my stomach. Upon my success, I keep my injured foot in the air and crawl on my knees along the clearing’s edge and in the opposite direction of the wolves. The trail of upturned ice and freshly disturbed soil that my flailing limbs leave behind is painfully obvious, but it's too late to back down now.

There's a shelf of bare rock I can see peeking through a barrier of gnarled and thorny thistles. _Maybe that'll deter them._ Encouraged by that thought, I crawl up to the thistles. At my touch, they untangle themselves, allowing my safe passage to the stone before safely closing once more. I've just yanked my wounded leg up onto the rock as the first of seven creatures enters the clearing.

The wolves aren't normal forest animals. Their coats are grey and sparse, with patches of cracked skin showing through. They lift their noses to sniff at the air, and one of them meets my gaze through the underbrush. Like their bodies are all controlled by the same puppeteer, the other wolves’ heads swivel toward my hiding spot. With the unhurried gait of predators who know their prey has nowhere to run, they circle closer.

That's when I register something unsettling: a reddish tinge in the air. An aura of sickness and corruption that lingers around the energies of the wolves. A song pieced together from randomly arranged notes, then played backwards and out of tune.

Those wolves are infected with red lyrium. The Blight.

The paw prints left in their wake sizzle and steam, as though the creatures are burning so hot they boil the snow beneath them. Their ears are torn ragged, and they growl through lips pulled back in slobbery snarls.  

I ease myself back and back and back until suddenly my fingers find no purchase. I turn to look behind me and find that I'm perched atop a cliff’s edge. It's a completely sheer drop, worse than the _Princess Bride's_ Cliffs of Insanity, and there doesn't seem to be a bottom. Just swirling smoke and far-off embers.

My stomach ties itself up into knots. Heights aren't a fear of mine. Falling _is_.

And then there's that feeling. You know, the one where you're standing at the edge of a great drop and you keep leaning forward, transfixed by the idea that if you lean far enough your center of gravity will send you toppling through the air?

Or maybe that's just me.

The wolves have reached the thorny barrier, bending down to snuffle at its roots. The leader of the pack, the alpha, looks at me with its lyrium-deadened eyes and, after a beat, it keens into the air.

This is different from their previous howling. It's a mournful noise, and yet a cry nonetheless. At first, nothing happens, but then I notice the shadows at the other end of the clearing elongating and growing darker, more...viscous? It's a mass of black that springs up from the ground, congeals, and takes on a distinctly humanoid shape, although much larger than the average inhabitant of Thedas.

More importantly than that, however, is the fact that it is coming toward me at a rather alarming speed. The inky black oozes through the barrier of thorns as though it isn't even there. It’s outline becomes more defined and more _familiar._ Now there are clawed fingers and a horrible amalgamation of human and lyrium and the stench of things long buried. Now there are burning eyes and tattered robes.

Now there is Corypheus towering over me, leering. “We meet again, girl _._ You should count yourself…lucky. After all, your life will come to an end at the hands of a _god.”_

My laughter hovers on the edge of hysterical. “Dude. I'm not religious and you're not holy, so you can fuck right on off with your god shit. _”_ I can't back up much farther. If I do, I'll fall an indeterminable distance before dying. If I stay, it's either death by wolves, cold, or decaying zombie mage. I lean even farther backward as the magister bares his teeth at me. I am dangerously close to toppling over the edge.

Corypheus reaches out a clawed hand, snagging my collar and scratching my skin as he hauls me up, dangling me over the drop. I kick and wriggle but it's to no avail. His talons just tighten around my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking fast. _Esta no es la verdad. Tú eres demasiado temprano. Esto tiene que ser un sueño._

_Me voy a caer ahora_. _Adiós, Corypheus. Solas me espera._

I suck in a poor excuse for a breath.

And, letting loose a burst of energy, I propel myself backwards, over the edge of the cliff. There's this shining moment where I see Corypheus with his jaw hanging open, surrounded by Blighted wolves, and the moon’s light falling in shimmery slants over my skin.

And then time speeds up again.

And then I fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esta no es la verdad. Tú eres demasiado temprano. Esto tiene que ser un sueño. : This is not the truth. You are too early. This has to be a dream.
> 
> Me voy a caer ahora. Adiós, Corypheus. Solas me espera.: I'm going to fall now. Goodbye, Corypheus. Solas awaits me.


	31. Dreaming of Wolves and Gardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise fellas! Another semi-double update!

I'm dressed in robes of silvery fabric that reflect the full spectrum of colors each time they shift. The sleeves are long, coming to my wrists and covering up my tattoos. A small pendant falls just above the swell of my breasts in the shape of a wolf’s jawbone. It's identical to Solas’, but silver and tinier.

I look up and nearly laugh. _Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Isn't that what they always say?_

“You escaped the clutches of that terror demon rather quickly,” Solas comments. He's lounging on a backless settee in the middle of a garden. A billowy white tunic fits nicely against his figure, and his dark leggings cling to him. _His_ jawbone necklace remains nestled against his collarbone. And, in the loose grip of slender fingers, he holds a long flute of wine.

I don't think I've ever seen him this relaxed.

“You could've helped,” I mumble. This air feels different, like it's humming with a constant crackle of energy. His aura, too, is huge and bright and takes so very little effort for me to sense.

And the garden that we're in… it's impressive to say the least. From our higher vantage point, we can look out at a hedge maze that's at least a few square miles, tall flowering trees that glow, and creeping vines that sound like wind chimes when the breeze ruffles them. “What is this place?”

“This?” He smiles faintly. “These are the grounds outside the ancient Elvhen city, Arlathan. Or, at least, how they appear to me in memories of the Fade.”

“Wow,” I breathe. In the distance, trees the size of skyscrapers tower above the land. Glass spires spiral through the branches, lit with veilfire and bobbing yellow lights. An entire city, larger than any I'd ever seen on Earth, floats in the air miles above the trees. The sight should send a jolt of fear through me, because at any second something like that could come crashing down, but it doesn't. There's just this sense that all is as it should be. That this is the natural way of the world.

Before the Veil.

I imagine the city, cut off from its magic, dropping from the sky like a dead bird. The impact, the shockwave that would decimate the surrounding forest for miles on end. The idea that there could be any survivors of the Elvhen at _all_ is incredible all on its own. Thank goodness they were all basically immortal.

_The poor wolf._

“It's magnificent,” is all I say. There is nothing else I _can_ say.

“Indeed.” Solas sighs, and it has to be one of the most wistful sounds I've ever heard.

_Is he showing this to me because of my half-baked confrontation earlier?_

Before I can ask, an elven woman with dark skin, freckles, and a wild mane of ebony curls pops into existence at his side. She soaks the sight of me in a moment, then whirls to Solas. “ _Lethallin,_ ” she scolds, “your description of the girl has done her no credit. She almost reminds me of one of your _asha’visen_ , with round ears instead of pointed!”

He jumps to his feet, the tips of his ears turning red. “Old friend, I had thought we might speak...later.”

“And later has become now. What can I say, _lethallin?_ I have become curious about the both of you.” She turns to me and, smiling brightly, conjures a pair of cushioned lounge chairs and a glass of fizzing pink liquid for me. “Take a seat, if you please. Why has Solas brought you here?”

“Um,” I sink down into the soft chair, and Solas follows suit, albeit reluctantly. “Alright. I think he was going to tell me about how I might go about warding my dreams.”

“Ah. Interesting. Very interesting,” she—it?—murmurs. Her wide green eyes scrutinize me intently. Solas, still standing stiffly, purses his lips. The woman smirks at him. “Relax, dear _lethallin_. Just looking at the girl will not become the harbinger of my corruption.”

“I know that,” Solas scowls, lifting the wine glass to his lips. “Forgive me, _falon,_ I am only anxious.”

“You worry far too much.”

“Perhaps you are right, or perhaps I worry just enough. I care for your safety, Wisdom.”

_Oh. Oh shit._

_This is Wisdom. THE Wisdom. Oh, sweet Saint Genesius._

_Fuck me. Fuck me. Fucking hell fuck. The Kirkwall mages. The summoning circle. They'll use you to kill. You'll be corrupted. Corrupted into Pride. I'm sorry I'm so sorry I'm so so sorry I'll stop it please you have to know I'll try to stop it I'm sorry—_

She settles back, steepling her fingers before she addresses me. “Rosalind. I am ancient beyond your comprehension. I have seen the rise and fall of many empires, and so I believe I might assist Solas in assisting you. You have no reason to be worried, even if first meetings are a little awkward.” The eye contact she's holding is piercing. Her eyes tell me more than her mouth does.

_Sounds a lot like a certain someone we know._

I take an experimental swig of the pink drink. “Is this...cherry cream soda?”

The spirit shrugs. “It is whatever you would like it to be. Now, to business.”

“Yes, of course,” Solas clears his throat. “Dream warding is a technique I have perfected over the course of my lifetime, and it is not one I will be able to teach you fully. However, I can make it simpler for you to _escape_ your nightmares, similarly to how you did tonight.”

“Really? Because I had to literally hurl myself from a cliff in order to get out. Isn't there an easier way?”

“Yes,” Solas and Wisdom say at the same time.

“Continue, _lethallin,_ ” the spirit waves him onward with a knowing smile.

“Of course.” He turns to me, narrowing his eyes. “First, you must deduce what kind of spirit has you in its domain, and then you must twist whatever situation it has you in against it.”

“So, like, I'm up against a bunch of wolves but then they turn into puppies or something?”

Solas chuckles, sipping at his wine. “I suppose that might work. Yes.”

My eyes widen with realization. “So you're telling me I just gotta cast _Riddikulus_ on the demons and then it's all cool? Like, I can just think of them as boggarts?”

“The principle is the same, yes,” Wisdom supplies when it's clear that I've left Solas at a loss.

“Okay,” I nod. “And that's all I have to do?”

“We can take additional precautions,” Solas suggests. “I find that taking the time to focus the mind before resting yields more desirable results.”

I take another drink of cherry soda. “Meditation? Okay. I could be into that.” Suddenly, a thought pops into my head. “Would this work against Desire demons as well, or any other than Fear? Now that I mention it, I have no idea how I would recognize a Desire demon.” Usually they're portrayed as sexual creatures, but if I'm not interested in sex…

Solas ponders this for a moment, considering me. “They will usually try to seduce their prey. But in general, there will be some sort of temptation involved. They offer something that you want but would not, under ordinary circumstances, be able to have.”

“But could that description not apply to the offerings of many benevolent spirits as well? Like hope or happiness or,” I look again to the floating city in the distance, “memories lived long ago?”

The Elvhen man opens his mouth to respond, but the spirit cuts him off by placing a hand on his chest and whispering in his ear. He first looks perplexed, but then he nods, hands Wisdom his glass of wine, and vanishes into thin air.

Without him there, color and life bleeds out of the dreamscape until it’s more like a blank canvas than anything.

Wisdom herself has diminished into more of a transparent outline of a humanoid than a creature of flesh and blood. “Imagine for me, _da’len,_ ” it says, “somewhere that you feel safe. Somewhere that you could picture every nook and cranny without faltering.”

I close my eyes, fixated very firmly on perhaps the most influential place of my high school life: the theater. I imagine the fly cage and stage manager’s panel to the left. The fluorescents are off, but the running lights provide beacons of soft blue light backstage. The catwalk is empty, as is the technical booth at the back of the house. “Bring up areas two, three, six, and seven, please?” I call out, smiling when the lights come up on center stage. Who needs a guy in the booth when you have magic dream powers?

Wisdom has taken the form of a tall, olive skinned Persian girl in a green sweater. One of my dearest friends, actually. “So,” she flashes a toothy smile.

“So?” I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans, “could you hear my thoughts? Earlier, I mean.”

“Yes. You fear that I will be summoned and twisted into an embodiment of Pride. The image in your mind's eye. It was so very clear although very flat. Why is that? There is so much about you that is foreign to me.” Wisdom tilts her head to the side. “I have seen much through the ages, and yet you puzzle me. You intrigue him as well, the Wolf, although he has not even scratched the surface of your mystique.”

“Yeah,” I nod. Waving my hand, I bring a pair of floral patterned loveseats into existence. “About that. I'm hoping you might be able to help me.”

And I tell Wisdom. Everything. From the concept of video games, the fact that I became very closely acquainted with the inhabitants of Thedas from a great distance, my knowing the possible branches the future might take, all the way up until I awoke as a prisoner in Haven. Then I get into the choice between mages and Templars, Halamshiral, Adamant, the Well of Sorrows, and so on and so forth, all the way to Trespasser and my speculations about the future.

The spirit takes the news calmly. “You know of the Dread Wolf's betrayals then, those both past and future, and yet you act as a friend to him. Do you hope to save him, or the world?”

“Both,” I sigh. “I get where he's coming from, and I sympathize, but I don't think he's fully considered his options. He's acting impulsively to fix a problem that, yes, should definitely be fixed, but the answer isn't burning the world down. Also, I kind of don't think he even gives a shit about elves. The _Elvhen_ , yes, but not those people of alienages or tribes or Circles. They're still ghosts to him. He wants to use them as stepping stones toward his goals.”

“You may be correct,” Wisdom agrees, turning shrewd. “And if it came between Thedas or Fen’Harel, which would you choose?”

“The world,” I respond after a moment's hesitation. There may be a lot of things that are shitty about Thedas, but the idea of a world where I'd allowed Varric or Alistair or Dorian to die by my hand isn't one I'd want to live in.

“You would choose the world over the Wolf, but so would he.” The spirit smiles slightly. “Once he has set his mind on a goal, he will give no quarter.”

“Are you saying I shouldn't try to save him?”

“Not at all, child. Simply know what is at stake, what you are fighting for, and do not forget it. You, as a former...player…are in the unique position to help him see reason. He has lived a life of pain and loss. If you can show him the hope in this world, you may stand a chance.”

Dismayed, I wrap my arms around my knees and sink deeper into the chair. “I don't know how much of an effect I could possibly have.”

“And you never _will_ know. Not until you try. He is not _quite_ so unswayable as you imagine.”

“I will try,” I sigh. “But can I ask a favor of you?”

“You may.”

“Don't tell him any of this. I'd like to keep most of this under wraps, please.”

The spirit raises a brow. ”You will tell him the truth eventually?”

_Will you?_

“Yes. I will.”

“Marvelous,” it hums, drifting closer to me almost unconsciously. “You are...odd. The Fade tugs at you. It clings to your feet. No wonder so many spirits are drawn to your dreaming. It must be visible in the waking world as well, within your aura.”

“What?” I look around, as if the inner workings of the Fade might be laid bare under my scrutiny. But, thinking back, I realize that my aura does have some weight to it. I had never fixated on it before because I had no frame of reference other than Solas’s, and I would assume that the aura of an Elvhen god isn't the best control sample.

“Solas must have noticed, and if it has to do with your being from another plane, be wary. The Wolf will be persistent in his hunt for answers.”

_We did just have a conversation about how it’s be better to not know much about the other, but it would be wise to take his words with a grain of salt._

It strikes me then, how much this spirit is doing for me even though we've just barely met. “ _Emma serannas_. I cannot express to you how grateful I am. And, Wisdom, I will do everything in my power to make sure you stay safe, got that? _Everything.”_

Her smile is slight but definitely present. “Do not fret for me, child. I should be the least of your concerns. Go now, to the land of the waking. _Dareth shiral_. And good luck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess you could call this a shameless plug, but if you're interested in ask prompts or submitting art or anything at all, this here is my Tumblr: https://eggspert.tumblr.com


	32. A New Challenger Appears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha sorry I'm late again wowza

Kaaras, Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and I set out for Val Royeaux the next morning, and after a week or two of travel, the city dominates the horizon. With a renewed vigor, we each kick our horses into a swift gallop until we reach the large cobblestone walkway to the city. There, we dismount, although we still linger by our horses.

“We're almost there,” Kaaras notes, removing the coin purse fastened to her saddle. Her gaze flicks uneasily between the ostentatious spires of the Orlesian city and the three of us. “I don't know about you, but I've got a bad feeling about this.”

Varric flashes the most asinine of grins. “What? You got the runs, too? I knew something was off about that nug meat last night. You can't ever trust a nug, that's what I always say.”

“Varric. This shit is serious.”

“I _know._ That's what I just said. The runs are a very serious matter, and also are actually shit.”  

“Well it's probably best to mentally prepare for this while we still can,” I interject, trying to ignore Varric but cracking a smile anyway. My hands flutter uncertainly around Estrella’s reins until I finally settle on running my fingers through her coarse mane. Her ears flick back in annoyance, but I don't stop my petting. It's more to ease my nervousness than to comfort the horse, after all. “Val Royeaux is shady as fuck.”

“Be mindful of your language, Handmaiden,” Cassandra reprimands. “This city still mourns the loss of the Divine.”

“I don't know if it's the best idea to call me that out here in the open, Cassandra,” I say. A pair of frightened stable boys take our horses away, and we are left with no reason to still be standing idle.

“Have you considered what side of that argument we will take?” Solas asks, although whether he is addressing me or Kaaras or the group as a whole is unclear. “Will the Herald of Andraste claim divinity, or that this has been a misunderstanding?”

Just Kaaras then.

The qunari shrugs, passing through the gates with but a mere glance at the guard and a wave of her marked hand. “Whether or not I say anything at all depends on what the situation looks like when we get in there. But, and mark my words here, all of you, I'm not going to lay claim to anything remotely holy unless Andraste herself comes down from the heavens and tells me to do so.”

“You may come to regret that decision, as playing the part of an icon might make your goals easier to attain,” Solas nods. And, even if what he says supports the contrary, he looks downright pleased at her words. I can practically see the little message appearing on the screen:  _Solas Approves._ I wonder if that has something to do with Kaaras not using the same methods that he did oh so long ago.

I look up at the extremely _disapproving_ Cassandra, who looks like she's just bitten into a sour lemon.  However, she does take a discreet glance up at the sky, as if the Maker’s Bride might indeed descend upon her holy Herald to grant a blessing.

Nothing happens.

As I pass, I offer Cassandra a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Come on, kids! Angry Chantry mothers await!”

A woman, dressed in the whole Orlesian floofy skirt and shiny mask get-up, catches sight of Kaaras. Now, whether it's the horns or the glowing hand that has her shrieking and fleeing for her life, that's anyone's guess. Probably a combination of the two.

“Just a thought, Seeker, but I think they know who we are,” Varric stares after her, expression somewhere between mild worry and exasperation.

Cassandra scowls at the dwarf in a way that somehow conveys fondness. “Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.”

“I do aim to please,” he laughs, about to say something else. Before he can, he's interrupted by the arrival of an Inquisition scout.

Out of breath, she drops to one knee and gasps, “my lady Herald.”

“You are one of Leliana's people!” Cassandra steps forward. “Tell me, what have you found?”

The scout squints up at the Seeker. “Many Chantry members await you.”

“Ha. Called it,” I mutter under my breath. Solas looks at me sideways, half smiling.

“But so do a great many Templars,” she continues, and the tension of the party collectively goes up a notch or five.

“There are Templars here?” Cassandra falters a moment, caught off guard.

“Yes. The people here seen to think that they will protect them from—from the _Inquisition!_ ” The scout’s face flushes scarlet and she drops her gaze to the mosaic inlay on the road beneath our feet: reds and blues and golds arranged in swirling patterns. “They're gatherin’ on the other side of the market. I think that's where they intend to meet you.”

“Then there is only one thing to do,” the Seeker says firmly, striding past the scout with determination in her gait. “I know Lord Seeker Lucius. He would not align himself with the Chantry after all that has occurred. Return to Haven. Tell them that we will be… Delayed.”

After the scout dashes off, the rest of us follow Cassandra, passing through a statue-lined walkway and coming out into an open air market. Colorful banners hung on strings flap and flutter in the breeze. The air is a mixture of colognes from the people and cooked foods from the restaurants, with just a hint of human refuse underlying it all.

It occurs to me that this is the first Thedosian city I've ever actually set foot in, but nobody else knows that, so I try to keep my ogling down to a minimum. Buildings have tall spires and and gently sloping archways. There are fountains on every other block in the wealthier sectors, and trellises of roses and ivy marking the overtly placed lover's alcoves.

There does indeed appear to be a crowd at the other end of the marketplace: people gathered around a Chantry mother quite literally on a pedestal, flanked by a couple of clerics and Ser Delrin Barris. _Huh,_ I think, _I always thought Barris came with Lucius._

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” the Chantry mother cries out, catching sight of our oddball entourage and fueling herself into a frenzy. “Together we mourn our Divine, her beautiful and naïve heart, silenced by _treachery!”_

With slow and precise steps, drawing the attention of those Orlesians who hadn't already noticed our arrival, she approaches us. Her gaze is fixed upon Kaaras, and the qunari glares right back, resolute. “You wonder what will become of her murderer? Well. Wonder no more.” Her eyes flicker sharply. “Behold,” she gestures toward the horned Tal-Vashoth, “the so-called Herald of _Andraste,_ claiming to rise where our Beloved fell!” She spits at our feet, and the people in the square all make noises of outrage, hurling slurs like rocks.

_Ox-woman. Greyskin. Divine Killer. Filth. Traitor. Murderer._

My fists clench at my sides.

“We say,” the Chantry mother continues, “that this is a false prophet, a wicked Qunari sent to subvert the Maker's word!” The crowd picks up even more, beginning to push and shove at the more harmless-looking of the group: Solas, Varric, and I. They yell over each other to inform us about the divine retribution we'd soon be facing. How the Maker would happily let the lot of us burn. One person latches onto my arm with such force that I can already feel where there'll be bruises.

“Enough!” Kaaras yells, and I instinctively shift into a defensive position. That's the same tone of voice she usually reserves for war cries. Cassandra looks equally alert, but the shout freezes the Orlesians unaccustomed to such uncouth behavior. “I am _not_ going to listen to these self-serving lies! The real enemy is the Breach in the sky, and we have to band together to stop it!”

Drawing herself upright, Cassandra proclaims, “It's true! We seek only to end this madness before it is too late!”

The Chantry mother, eyes ablaze, jabs a finger at the approaching Templars, headed by Lord Seeker Lucius. “It is _already_ too late,” she sneers, prattling on about how the Templars were returning to the fold in order to oust the upstart Inquisition. Even as annoying as the woman is, it's still not pleasant to watch her get decked.

Then it's Lucius’s—or should I say Envy's—turn to talk. He focuses mostly on Cassandra, going on about how she's a heretic, he's the only important person there, and Val Royeaux isn't worth their protection yada yada yada etcetera etcetera—oh.

His eyes have shifted, locked on mine. They glow a murky yellow, like sulfur. “You. Who are you?” While it speaks in my direction, it's more like he's talking _about_ me rather than _to_ me.

Instead, a man with windswept hair, a stubbly chin, and meadow-green eyes steps forward. He wears neither the armor of the Seekers, nor the Templars, clothed instead in all black. I must admit, the dude is pretty stylish, and fairly easy on the eyes. Must be a nobleman. “I do not know, Lord Seeker. She is unfamiliar to me,” he says smoothly, raising a manicured brow. _Do they do eyebrow waxing here? Wouldn't surprise me_ , I suppose, _especially because this is Val Royeaux._

_More importantly, you unobservant ass, look at his aura. It's strange. It’s like the Fade warps around him. Like he's… heavier?_

_You're right. That is pretty weird. Maybe ask Solas about it later._

“And we _are_ familiar to you?” Kaaras scoffs. “I've never seen you before in my life.” The others mumble their agreement.

“It does not matter. They are not important. Neither is this city. Come men! We march!” With his head held high, Lucius strides out of the marketplace with his soldiers at his back.

At Lucius’ departure, the crowd's energy palpably decreases and they disperse.

The nobleman in black lingers behind, beckoning me over to him. Curious, I leave the safety of the group to approach the stranger. “Why do I not know you?” he wonders.

I furrow my brow, confused. “Because we've never met. Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” he repeats. “Are you a scout sent to accompany the main party?”

“Of a sort, yeah.” Without really meaning to, I slip into an English accent. It's more Fereldan-sounding, I guess.

His eyes flicker up, toward the retreating forms of the soldiers. “Looks like I'll have a little while to chat, but what I don't have is your name. Scout—?”

“Ross.”

“Ross,” he purrs with his buttery warm voice. “A lovely name for a lovely woman.”

_Idiot. Why did you give him your real name? He's super...shady._

_Listen. Are they going to be singing ballads about Handmaiden Ross? I don't think so. If he’s ever heard about a Handmaiden, she'd have been called Rosalind._

_Alright. Fine._

I cross my arms and look up at the man, not responding to his blatant flattery.. “And you? Who’re you?”

He looks down at himself then back at me, smirking. “I am called Daniel. Daniel Edvard Angelo Nebuchadnezzar Ravencroft.”

“If you don't want to tell me, you don't have to,” I roll my eyes, snorting despite myself.

He folds his hands behind his back. “Just Daniel then.”

“Right. Just Daniel _._ Do you know why Lord Seeker Lucius was acting so strangely?”

His expression becomes more suspicious immediately. Dazzling green eyes dart away and his face plasters itself into a fake smile. “I haven't the faintest idea what you mean. I only met the man a month or two ago. How would I know what is strange for him and what is not?”

My lips twist into a scowl. “Listen, I'd say a Seeker of Truth who's been more or less loyal to the Chantry his entire life wouldn't just come in and sanction a beat down of the local revered mother."

Daniel chuckles with a dark sort of humor, raking a hand through blond hair. “You heard the Templar earlier: Do not question.”

My mouth twists into an unimpressed scowl. ”That would be pretty tough, considering we're an organization called the _Inquisition_. Questioning is in the job description.”

He looks up again at Lucius and his Templars, now having reached the walkway outside of the hall of statues. “You seem like a nice girl, if a tad simple. It's a shame that you're caught up in all of this.”

_Bitch. Who are you calling simple._

“I could say the same to you. Why work for crazy people like Lucius?”

“It keeps me safe.”

That captures my attention. “Safe? How? Seems to me like you've plopped yourself right in the middle of the Mage-Templar war. Can't get much more dangerous than that.”

Unless it's my imagination, and I am fairly sure it isn't, he turns his head ever so slightly toward Solas. “One thing you will learn in your journeys, Ross, is that there are wolves that prowl this land. I prefer hunting to being hunted. Believe me, darling, I'm in this for the long game.”

“Huh.” That sends a shiver down my spine. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

When he grins, I notice that his teeth are perfectly white and perfectly straight, and that little dimples form in his cheeks. “Nothing worth worrying your pretty little head about. And anyway, it looks like they really will leave me behind if I stay. It's been fun, but I'm afraid I really must dash. Ta ta,” he winks, turns on his heel, and jogs out of the square at a swift pace.

_What. The. Fuck._

I rejoin the others, only offering vague responses to their questions. “No, I _didn't_ know him. No, he didn't think that Lucius was acting strangely. Yes, his eyes were green and hypnotizing thank you for noticing. Sure, let's look at the message on that arrow.”

They hire the merchant called Belle, speak with the man who invites them to Vivienne's salon, and then to temporally distorted Fiona.

All the while me and Daniel’s conversation is flipping and turning and smooshing around in my head. _“She is unfamiliar to me...Why don't I know you?… wolves that prowl...long game…”  His teeth looked artificially altered, he singled me out almost immediately._

_And his aura, it sinks around him, like he's heavier. Isn't that how Wisdom described my presence in the Fade? It's almost like he—oh._

And then I put two and two together.

Daniel was a player back on Earth, just like me. Daniel is a player, and he's knowingly working for Corypheus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmkay so just cutting right to the chase here, I'm thinking about writing a Solavellan modern AU thing? I don't know what kind of AU per se, but it's food for thought. 
> 
> Tumblr: https://eggspert.tumblr.com


	33. L'aiguille et le Fil

After Rosalind's conversation with the human in black, she returns to the party. And, while at first she is withdrawn, she is soon cracking jokes bringing herself to the forefront of the party’s attention. Then, all of a sudden, she stiffens and pales, eyes widening in abrupt realization. Realization of what, I am not certain. It is only for an instant, however, and in the next she is back to normal.

As normal as she ever is, which isn't very.

Over the next quarter hour while we speak to various citizens, I notice her sliding furtive glances at the entrance to the market square. Something about that man in black concerns her, if the evidence is anything to go by. He was not ugly, to be sure, with his broad shoulders and sharp gaze. He had latched on to Rosalind almost immediately upon noticing her.

The sight of the man ushering her away from us, having a murmured conversation, and very clearly behaving in a flirtatious manner toward her is still vividly fresh in my mind's eye. She was obviously tense, and I believe her when she says that this is the first time she has ever laid eyes upon him. Then, that moment, the knowing, surreptitious look he had aimed toward me. The knowing smirk accompanied by a flicker of a wink that had set me on edge.

The man in black feels...dangerous.

There are traits that he and Rosalind that share _._ The smugness, the feeling that they know more than they let on. They are both mages, obviously, and their auras are remarkably similar. Not in tone, as she is warm amber and he is a deeply saturated indigo, but in weight, energy. The Fade folds around the both of them in a way that is nearly identical.

Actually, that is an interesting thought all on its own, and it is one that brings me pause.

I had assumed that the odd manner in which Rosalind’s aura manifested itself was a result of her physical journey through the Fade. If this other human possesses the same characteristics as her, does this mean that he also has traveled through the Fade?

_Not impossible given the circumstances, but exceedingly unlikely._

There is something that links the two of them together. That, I am certain of. And, looking back at the human woman, I wonder if I have just had the very same realization she had experienced mere minutes before.

* * *

 

“L’aiguille et le Fil,” Kaaras muses, pulling me out of my reverie. She's stopped in front of a storefront, considering a modest wooden sign hanging above her that's engraved with a picture of a needle and spool of thread. Solas trails behind us, attentively listening to our conversation.

Varric approaches the painted green oak of the door, ducking to the side to peek through the window. “Seems like a tailor’s shop. That _is_ what we're looking for, right?”

“Yep,” the qunari nods. “And this is the only one on the street that doesn't look like it's first order of business would be to rob us blind, so I think it's worth a shot.” Twisting the doorknob, she pushes it open and lets us into an establishment that's clean and just as unpretentious as its exterior might lead you to believe.

Wood and steel mannequins of different shapes and sizes are spaced between bolts of fabric and premade articles of clothing, displaying anything from ladies ball gowns to padded soldier's gambesons.

From another room comes the sound of multiple objects crashing to the floor with a _pop pop pop pop._ “Oh, b-b-bollocks,” a woman swears. “I'll be just a minute,” she calls, “you c-can take a look around, if it pleases you!”

“Take your time,” I respond automatically, registering the person's speech impediment and promptly deciding to say nothing about it. We follow her advice, splitting up to find things that catch our fancies. Cassandra approaches the stands of under armor tucked away in the corner, although I spot her eyeing the more feminine blouses across the shop when she thinks no one is watching. Varric pauses in front of a stocky looking dummy, running an appreciative hand over the sleeve of a leather coat.

Kaaras and I pick our way over to a counter, and Solas lingers at a respectful distance, probably disinterested with the idea of clothes shopping. Suddenly, a short young lady with frizzy red hair and freckles pops her head around the corner, smiling self-consciously. “Hello, customer! How can I h-help...um...” I can tell the moment she registers Kaaras. Her eyes latch onto dark horns, the hilt of a massive greatsword, green magic crackling in a hand. Her mouth forms a perfectly terrified 'O’.

The woman's gaze flickers around, probably analyzing possible exits from the room (there are three), and possible exits from the building (there's just one, and Cassandra happens to be standing close enough to it to make a grab at her if she were to try and escape). Up against five armed fighters, she wouldn't stand a chance, and she knows it.

She takes a shuddery breath and stammers, “a-a-a-are you here to c-c-collect for Ro-Robillard? T-t-tell him I haven’t any more m-m-money and Sim-Simon will realize I'm mi-mi-missing, even if n-no one else will. And kn-know this. I won’t g-go dow-dow-down without a f-f-f-fight.” The girl, whose stutter has only grown more pronounced with fear, reaches for a pair of scissors tucked into her waistband. She's shaking so badly I'm shocked she doesn't drop them right off the bat.

Varric slowly raises his hands. “Woah there, Snippy, we're not here to ‘collect’, and we're not gonna hurt you. We're with the Inquisition.” He sets Bianca down on the ground and parts from her with a wince. Then, like easing up to a frightened animal, he approaches her.

“The Inq-Inquisition?” Her voice goes up a few notches. “ _The_ Inquisition?”

“Yes,” Cassandra says with brows furrowed. “Is that an issue?”

“N-no? I d-don't...ah...” The frizzy haired tailor says, for the first time registering the large Seekers emblem emblazoned on Cassandra's breastplate. A small amount of tension leaves her, but it's right back again when her attention is drawn to Kaaras.

“Hello, Miss…” Kaaras trails of expectedly, extending her Anchor-less hand in greeting. Her expression is earnest and nonthreatening and, although the tailor remains suspicious, she gingerly accepts the hand shake. The scissors return to her waistband.

“Laurel. Laurel Brandt.”

“Laurel. Nice name.”

The redhead says nothing in response.

The qunari coughs awkwardly. “So. Well. I'm Kaaras Adaar. With the Inquisition.” She scratches at the back of her head. “Some people call me the Herald of Andraste.”

Laurel blinks. And blinks again. “Oh. You’re it. The Herald they've all b-been go-go-going on about. I see. Is there an-anything you n-need?”

“Clothes, actually. Clothes that fit and could be worn at a formal event, unless I've mistaken Josephine's request?” Kaaras looks questioningly at Cassandra, but the Seeker only shrugs. “Clothes, yes. Can you make some for us? If it's too much trouble, we could go somewhere else—”

“N-no!” Laurel yelps. “I mean, yes. Yes, I c-c-can make clothes. What do you n-need ex-exactly?”

“Ah,” Kaaras winces, abashed. “I hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Josephine said nice clothes that fit us, and that's about as much as I remember.”

As the realization sinks in that she is not in the presence of mercenaries but of customers, Laurel relaxes, becoming more thoughtful. She looks around. “All of you?”

Before Kaaras can respond, Cassandra butts in. “No. Just the two of them.”

“T-Two?”

The raven-haired woman smiles at me. “The Herald and her Handmaiden.”

“Handmaiden?”

Turning around to face the Seeker, I glower, “Cassandra, I thought we were keeping that under wraps. There's practically no one outside of the Inquisition that calls me that.”

Kaaras pointedly clears her throat in order to catch my attention. “Sorry, Ross, but that's probably going to change. It was actually more a practical decision than anything. Cass, Josie, Leli, Cullen, and I decided a while ago that it would be wise to have both a human and Tal Vashoth as the Inquisition's figureheads, rather than just a Tal Vashoth. It puts people more at ease and makes us a little more palatable,” she explains, smiling slightly.

I give it a moment's deliberation. I try to come up with a solid argument against it. Then, reluctantly, “You know that actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Right?”

“Fine. Still hate it, but fine,” I sigh. “In that case we're going to need something that we could wear to Madame de Fer’s salon in a few days.” At the sudden pallor that washes over Laurel, I amend myself. “Not floor length evening gowns. Don't worry. Just shirts, pants, and probably undergarments?”

It's hard to say whether the seamstress or the Seeker blushes more at my mention of unmentionables.

Laurel stares at the floor. “I am truly sorry my lady. I d-d-don't really d-do...that. Simon m-maybe, but no-not me. I cou-could try?”

“No, sorry. We don't want to trouble you too much. Just two pairs of pants and two shirts should do it.”

“That’s all?” The young redhead asks, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I c-can have those finished up in a ri-right jiffy.”

“Yes, please. Would you prefer we pay now or later?”

Her jaw sets in determination. “Later. N-not until the job is do-done. I’ll ne-ne-need your mea-measurements.”


	34. La Cuerva

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So uh this was not supposed to take this long but haha I'm here now. On the previous episode: our heroes meet the seamstress Laurel (or Yanny ;)) and she almost stabs Kaaras with a pair of scissors so yep yeah all caught up

The rest of the party has left to find lodging, and we've just finished sketching out the styles and fabrics that we'd like to commission, when there is a rude knock at the door. “Brandt! I _know_ you are in there! Open up!”

The blood drains from Laurel’s face as she squeaks, “com-com-com-coming!”

“Who is that?” Kaaras asks, hand finding the hilt of her greatsword. “Do they mean to harm you?”

“N-no,” Laurel insists, although she doesn't appear convinced. “I be-be-believe they are with R-Robillard. St-stay here.” The younger seamstress rushes from the room, clearly panicked.

The qunari and I trade incredulous looks before easing the door open a crack, so we can peek out into the main browsing area. Neither of us is wearing armor, so if it comes to a fight we could get seriously injured. Well, I could at least. Best to avoid that.

Besides, I wouldn't want to cause any damages to Laurel's shop.

Just then, she opens the door to reveal a trio of Orlesians with rapiers hanging at their sides. Each of them wears a white mask with garish orange lips. One is tall and lanky, one is heavyset, and one is just sort of average.

“Hel-hello,” Laurel whispers.

One of them looks down his porcelain nose at her. “Where is your brother Simon?”

“He is away on b-business, adjusting several of the Mar-Mar-Marquise Bauffremont’s hemlines. I am handling the L’aiguille in his st-stead.”

“You?” the fatter Orlesian sneers. “The little girl who can't even string two syllables together?”

Her spine stiffens. “Yes. M-me.”

“Right then. If you are taking full responsibility, you owe Monsieur Robillard ninety royals for your rent and protection, and you are long past due. Pay. Now.”

“N-now? Ninety royals, h-how many sovereigns is that again?”

“Stupid foreign girl,” the first mutters, resting his hand on the hilt of his rapier in a threatening manner. “Ninety royals is the same thing as ninety sovereigns. Gold pieces!”

“Ninety sov-sovereigns? I d-don't think we have that much t-t-to give. But I c-c-can look! I c-can look.”

_Well, things certainly look like they're going south, and I really don't trust those bastards._

Then, my eye alights upon Kaaras’s coin purse, which I know for a fact contains forty five sovereigns. When I approach it, however, I scoop up only twenty. I'm having some ideas.

Before I leave the room, I wrinkle up my nose at my unassuming attire. _This won't do at all, but this is a tailor's shop. There's gotta be something I can use._

That's when I see an imperious looking mannequin on the far end of the room. It's dressed in black robes with a cape made of raven feathers, a mask of foreboding onyx curving down into an imitation of a beak.

_Perfect._

Kaaras helps me to quickly don the spectacular items of clothing, tying a crimson sash around my waist and giving me a single nod of approval afterward.

It's time to see if I've still got what it takes.

* * *

 

At first, she looks a little silly, like a child trying on her mother's clothes, but then something changes. She draws herself upright, and an invisible energy exudes from her in waves. Sweeping from the back room where we'd been eavesdropping, she spreads her arms wide to wrap Laurel in a hug.

In a strange accent, she lilts, “Laurel, _mi querida_ , are these _tontos_ trying to swindle you?”

“My lady!” she gasps, eyes widening. The three Orlesians step back, observing this new threat through the eye slits of their masks.

“Who are you?” One of them asks, wary.

“Me?” Rosalind titters in that way particular to nobles used to the world bowing at their feet. I have to physically stop my teeth from grinding, so I guess she's doing a good job. “I am the Doña Rosalinda Esmeralda Inés de Calderón. _Encantado_.”

“I s-see,” another one, the more portly of the bunch, gulps.

“Ah,” the human purrs, “can't even string two syllables together? _Es_ _un poquito difícil_ , _no_?”

The longer, skinnier Orlesian inclines his head. “If you would kindly mind your own business, we have an issue of payment to settle with the tailor's sister.”

“How much does she owe you?”

He smiles. “Ninety-five royals.”

“Ni-ni-ninety-five? B-but you just said ni-ninety!” Laurel interrupts.

“Hmm, yes. Rate’s gone up. Call it a fee for _complications_.”

“Here,” Rosalind tosses a very familiar coin purse at the Orlesians. I turn to the table where mine had been and, sure enough, it's gone. In its place is a stack of gold, silver, and bronze coins. Peeking back through the crack the the door, I watch the head Orlesian dump a small amount of gold into his palm.

“Do you jest? I count only twenty pieces.”

“I do not, in fact, jest,” Rosalind says, flicking a strand of hair back. “Twenty royals for your master, whomever you collect debts for. The ease with which you raised your price makes me suspicious. But I am sure that your intentions were pure and that you intended to bring all of it, regardless, to your employer?” The three men shift uneasily, guilty before the unwavering gaze of Rosalind Clarke. “I thought not. Shall I contact him? Robillard, yes? Tell him he's got a trio of embezzlers working for him?”

Amused, I have to stifle a snicker. _Where the fuck did this girl even come from._

The leader grits his teeth, widening his stance in such a way that I anticipate a fight. My fist curls easily around the hilt of my blade. “I _said_ ninety. This shop must pay for the protections Monsieur Robillard offered them.”

“What protections are you talking about?”

“It is all part of the Game,” the third Orlesian supplies. “Monsieur offers a valuable service for those who pay: gossip. If you pay, business is good, people from across the continent may seek after your wares. If you make promises to pay, but do not follow through, then he makes certain that you come to regret it.”

_Andraste’s tits, Orlesians are insane._

“Thank you, but no thank you,” Rosalind dips her head. “Consider whatever agreement they had terminated.”

“What?” Laurel and the Orlesians turn on her at the same time.

“Take the twenty royals, and from now on the tailors of L'aiguille et le Fil will take on a new partnership.”

Laurel, eyes a mixture of fear and anticipation, asks, “With who?”

“With who else? The Inquisition.”

“The Inquisition!” The skinny one guffaws. “That puny upstart of an organization? You will not need Monsieur Robillard to ruin your reputation. That will do it for you!” 

Rosalind crosses her arms, looking coolly collected. “The decision is final. And you shall bring _all twenty_ of those royals to Monsieur Robillard, or you will be out of the job before you can say frilly cakes. If any harm comes to Laurel or her brother, I _will_ learn of it, and what follows will _not_ be pleasant. Now, if you would, please leave.”

“But—”

“I will not ask you again.”

The portly one and the nondescript one exit in a glum shuffling of feet, and, after a long beat of dour silence, the leader takes his leave as well.

Rosalind waits a long moment to make sure they are gone, then slumps forward, exhales a shuddering breath, and carefully removes the mask. “Dear God that was terrifying.”

“Yes,” Laurel agrees, face pale.

I slip out from hiding and take a place leaning against the wall in the main room, allowing Rosalind to go and undress herself in peace. “The Inquisition: all we want is to stop the Breach in the sky and maybe secure peace between mages and Templars. We aren't religious heretics. Mostly. And you don't have to join up if you don't want to. I'll write our senior diplomat, Josephine, and ask her to see if she can't renegotiate something with Robillard if it’s what you want.

“N-no,” the seamstress shakes her head firmly. “I d-dislike being inde-debted to Orlesians. I would n-n-need to speak with Simon. B-but… Maybe we will.”

“Really?” a lopsided grin spreads across my face. “Great. I think Josie and Nightingale would like having a pair of skilled tailors around.”

Laurel blushes a bright red, letting slip a nervous little smile. “Sk-skilled? That is my b-brother. I am only an ap-apprentice.”

I cast a critical eye about the place. “Anything in here made by you?”

“Y-yes.”

“I couldn't tell you which was yours.”

She flushes even brighter. “Forgive me, b-but that is be-because your eye is untrained.”

“You might be right about that,” I admit with a chagrined chuckle, “but you've got a knack for the art, the skill, of tailoring, and the Inquisition needs and welcomes anyone that can help. Both you and Simon _can_ help, there's no doubt in my mind.”

“I already t-told you I would t-t-talk to Simon.”

“I know. But just know: if Orlais isn't cutting it for you, we're always an option.”

Rosalind emerges from the back room, offering an apologetic smile when she realizes she's interrupted us. “When will those outfits be ready, do you think?”

Laurel's expression hardens with determination. “T-two days.”

“Great! We'll be back then. How much will they cost?”

The seamstress’ brow furrows, considering. “Three sovereigns.”

“So that'll be, what, twelve total if we each get two? That's manageable.”

“N-no, my lady. Three sovereigns. That is all.”

“Are you sure?” I interject, raising a skeptical brow.

“Yes. You g-g-got rid of those charlatans. This is m-my thanks.”

Rosalind's face softens at the gesture. “It was no great trouble, Laurel. But if you are truly comfortable with this, then thank you. I'm sure your work will come along beautifully.”

As we leave the little tailor's shop, I hear a quiet “I— thank you,” and that small display of gratitude makes me feel warmer inside than I have in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi querida: my dear  
> Tontos: idiots  
> Es un poquito difícil, no?: It's a little difficult, no?
> 
> https://eggspert.tumblr.com


	35. Tanley's House of Eccentricities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a doozy, fellas...

After a near-midnight escapade killing half-naked men in order to assist a roguish elven girl, we have found ourselves in a tavern on the rougher edges of the city. I am swiftly coming to realize that this will be a frequently occurring scenario in the future. The elven girl, Sera I believe she was called, declined the offer to join us. She parted with a wistful look at the Herald, citing a need to “tie up some loose ends”.

“Oh, you should have seen her!” the Herald chortles between swigs of ale. The foam of the drink dribbles down her chin, and she swipes at it with the cuff of her sleeve. Her violet eyes are gleaming with the thrill of a tale. “After you all left, these Orlesian bastards,” she begins. The noise of the place stops, and the collective gaze of its Orlesian patrons turns on her.

“A-ha-ho! Sorry, my friends. I meant, after you all left, these _mercenary_ bastards just stormed into the tailor's shop.” Raising her eyebrows, she glares around the room, challenging any of them to object. No one does. And, gradually, the chatter of the tavern picks up again, although it takes some time to get anywhere near its previous volume.

Varric leans toward her, conspiratorial, “Well, go on, Reaver! I'm dying to know what's got Bluebird all flustered.”

At that, Rosalind sinks further down into her seat, flushing an embarrassed pink. Her aura flickers about, nervous and skittery in the face of the attention she is receiving. She lifts her mug to her face and gulps down a few swallows of tea. “It really wasn't that interesting, Varric.”

“You know, I don't think I can believe that,” the dwarf laughs and offers her a good-natured slap on the back. “So, three mercenaries, a tailor, a qunari, and a mage, all in the same place with clear conflicts of interest… What's the story?”

“Yes,” Cassandra agrees, appearing invested despite herself, “You have dragged this out long enough.”

“Ross?” Kaaras raises a questioning eyebrow at the woman in question. Groaning in defeat, she gestures that the Herald continue. “Yes! So as I was saying, the mercs come in, and they're demanding payment from Laurel, the tailor girl. Get this, they wanted _ninety sovereigns_ from her!”

Varric whistles in appreciation. “Ninety sovereigns? Damn. That's more than what Hawke had to scrape together to get out of his job working for Athenril. He was doing illegal shit and it took him at least six months.”

“So the two of us gave each other this _look_ because we both knew it was a shit ton of money, but poor Laurel was stuttering and stammering and I wanted to do something, you know? But this girl, this _girl,_ ” she laughs, pointing a finger at Rosalind as if there was any doubt as to whom she was referring. “First, she strips faster than I've ever seen anyone do in my life, and I start to realize what she's trying to do.”

“What?” Varric chortles, “seduce the lot of them? Sounds like the type of plan Rivaini might concoct.” Obviously, the dwarf is attempting to rile Rosalind up, but instead of giving him the pleasure of her mortification, she simply offers an enigmatically arched eyebrow. A little uncertain now, he shifts on his barstool. “You…didn't. Did you?”

When I imagine Rosalind's body laid bare for the mere purpose of providing comfort to three Orlesian strangers, their beady eyes tracing hungrily over every dip and curve of her form, it strikes a raw nerve within me. They would be nothing but gluttonous _pigs_ beside themselves with the thought of their next conquest, completely oblivious to the delightful nature of her mind, her heart, her _spirit._

 _Fenedhis, what has come over me?_ Heat rises up my neck and I pull discreetly at my collar. It is the drink, perhaps. I push the tankard away from me, never mind that I have only taken a polite sip or two.

Somewhat dimly, I register that the conversation still continues. “No, unfortunately. But she did put on these dark robes and this badass looking raven feather cape, somehow successfully convincing all of them that she was this foreign noblewoman. She even had _me_ questioning myself.” Rosalind, having finally begun warming up to the retelling, nods along with Kaaras's words. “Where were you pretending to be from again?”

“Rivain, or maybe Antiva,” she juts her chin out at Varric, teasing, “but I didn't get far enough to make it as abundantly _clear_ to them as I might've liked.”

“Rosalind!” Cassandra gapes at her, aghast.

She chuckles in response, “What?”

Her aura, warm and calmer now, loosens up in order to encompass a more comfortable radius. I fail to realize how close this brings her energy to mine until she's made contact. _Bliss, warmth, friends, laughter. I've missed this._ I inhale sharply, snapping my aura around me and setting up every mental block imaginable in order to keep from sensing her emotions.

_Is it to keep from sensing her, or to keep her from sensing you?_

_She should not be able to communicate thoughts to me, even ones as simple as those. You realize the implications of such a thing?_

_A bond?_

_Precisely._

Her startled eyes, blue-turned-amber underneath the wavering candlelight of the tavern, find mine immediately once she senses my withdrawal. They are filled with worry. _Why? What has she to worry about?_

 _You, you old fool,_ a voice whispers in the recesses of my mind.

_Nonsense. A trick of the light and a reflection of my own lonesomeness. That is all it is._

Still, I am uneasy. And, as soon as it is polite to do so, I excuse myself from the group and hurry up the stairs toward my room.

* * *

 

I’m in a new city, in a world to which I've been resident for a relatively short amount of time, and with a reasonable amount of coin on my person.

So what's the first thing I decide to do with my spare time?

Sightseeing, of course!

I would've gone with someone, but Cassandra and Kaaras were busy with important world-ending conversation, Varric was passed out, and Solas… Well, Solas was definitely awake, judging by the activity of his aura. He'd just remained locked inside his shared room, still acting as strangely reclusive as when he'd left last night.

It worried me, certainly, but not enough to completely put off my explorations. Besides, I wouldn't want to invade his privacy when he so clearly wanted to be alone.

After much wandering through winding streets and jumbled alleyways, I come across a squat, brick building that looks like it's sagging underneath its own weight. Tanley's House of Eccentricities, it's called. Inside, I realize that the eccentricities are plentiful, but Tanley himself is nowhere to be seen.

Tables and shelves are all crammed together, crowded over with miscellaneous objects all rioting for the attention of potential buyers. Small statues and figurines, strange roots, faintly glowing crystals, corded bracelets, a few plainly bound books, and handmade earthenware make up the more mundane of Tanley's selection.

It becomes steadily more interesting, and more expensive, the deeper I delve into the shop. Great feathered tribal masks, some pieces of Dalish and Qunari armor, cauldrons, plants with leaves and flowers all colors of the rainbow, and then things that really begin to interest me. Tucked away between an ornate portrait of a mabari and a jewel encrusted shield, I see an old book falling apart at the seams that's faintly emblazoned with the title: _Advanced Herbal Formulae_.

I snatch it up quickly, skimming through the table of contents. It contains helpful remedies and healing potions, but there is also an alarmingly extensive and detailed section on poisons. I tuck it underneath my arm and continue my search.

Next, my eye is drawn to a marble falcon. The medium works well to emphasize the harsh lines and imperious nature of the creature. I lean closer to it, fascinated by the detailing on the feathers and the fact that some sculptor managed to carve out every fiber of its irises.

“Careful,” a voice says from behind me, almost making me jump out of my skin. I whirl around, not prepared for the old withered fellow as high as my waist, eyes twinkling as he cranes his neck up at me. Bits and baubles dangle from his coat pockets, and I wonder why I didn't hear him approach. “Igni has a proclivity toward biting if one gets too close.”

“Igni?” I furrow my brows, turning back to discover that the stone falcon is stone no longer, now covered in feathers, _much_ larger, and staring back at me with a critical eye. “It's… actually alive.” The bird lets out a soft, affirmative _chee-up._ “That's cool. Weird, but cool.” Without accidentally moving myself into pecking range, I greet it properly. “Hello, Igni. I suppose that I'm obligated to tell you that you're gorgeous.”

“Indeed, he is,” the old man agrees with a chuckle. “Would you like him? He is for sale, and it looks like he likes you.”

“Yes,” I reply without thinking. Upon processing this, I scramble to correct myself. “Wait, no, I don't know how to take care of a falcon. I'd probably be a terrible owner. Keep him, please.”

“Poppycock,” the old man harrumphs. With a few muttered curses, he reaches a hand inside his shirt and pulls out a leather cord hung with an amulet of polished marble and engraved with a pattern of flames. “All you need is this, my dear.”

“I see,” I say, not seeing at all.

He gives me a look. “Do not lie. It does not become you.”

Willing to play along with this strange shopkeeper, I ask him, “Alright. How could owning that amulet make me any more knowledgeable about falcon-care?”

That sends him into a fit of cackling, his eyes water from mirth. “Knowledgeable? About falcon-care? Ha! This will do no such thing!”

I roll my eyes. I can't help it. “Then what _will_ it do?”

“All it does is offer you _control_. Like so,” his shrewd gaze fixes again upon the falcon. “Igni,” the bird perks up, “fly to that coat rack over there.”

Although Igni is decidedly unimpressed with the mundane order, he alights briefly into the air, fluttering across the shop and landing at the top of a wooden coat stand with as much dignity as it can muster.

“That's awesome,” I say, a little envious.

“Igni, return,” the man orders, and the obedient falcon complies, flying back to him and lowering onto his arm. “Good bird,” gently, he uses his rough hands to smooth back the feathers framing its face. “Lapis.”

It lets out a squawk in protest, shrinking and rapidly petrifying into marble. Now it's back to its— _normal?—_ self, a nice fist-sized falcon-shaped statue.

The old man, who I believe I can safely assume is Tanley, gives the stone an affectionate pat. “Fascinating, isn't it?”

“Probably super expensive, too,” I give an awkward laugh. _Honestly, I can't imagine what a magical item like that would cost._

To my surprise, Tanley responds. “Not necessarily. Look around, see what else you like, and we'll see if a bargain can't be struck. I receive very few customers, and these things aren't going to be of much use to anyone if they aren't being, well, _used.”_  

With that, he totters off, leaving the amulet and statue behind and allowing me some time alone. Hesitantly, I scoop up the two items and cradle them under the same arm as _Advanced Herbal Formulae._

I meander through aisles stocked with magical swords, skulls that whisper arcane secrets, mystic tarot cards, and hooded cloaks that conceal you from enemies. After another half hour of browsing, the only item that I can convince myself would actually be a practical purchase is a matching set of two palm-sized metallic devices. Much more than simple decorations, the magical objects can be used as communicators across even the largest of distances.

As I set them on the counter, Tanley eyes my choices appraisingly: the herbalism book, Igni, and the communicators. “Interesting,” he mumbles, “Possibly stupid, but interesting.”

“Stupid?”

“Only possibly, I said. It is something that remains to be seen.”

I press my lips together, apparently too dull to decipher the old man's cryptic speech. “How much? If it's an exorbitant amount, then I can go put something back.”

He smiles, and his dark eyes feel like they are piercing right through my soul. “It will cost you no _coin_ , child.”

Something akin to dread shivers down my spine because I do _not_ like his emphasis on the word coin. “If you don't want money, then what?”

“All I ask is that you listen to what I have to tell you.”

“What's the catch?" I let my eyes dart quickly around the room, searching for assassins or Venatori hidden in the shadows.

“No catch. Just my words and your ears. Simple as that.”

“Go on.” I have a feeling that this is not something I can ignore.

“The others grow restless with you. They wonder if you will be strong enough, swift enough. Another has already sent a champion of their own, you've seen him, and his methods are altogether different. He will be a threat to both you and this world, and you must be wary.”

“Who are you, really? Who are you talking about? What others? What champion?”

The old man begins transforming, darkening, elongating into something alien and _other._ **“You already know who I am. You already know of the other champion. Do not waste your breath asking unnecessary questions.”**

I gulp, feeling my legs go weak. _I'm so stupid. Jesus Christ. Tanley? Are you kidding? This is too obvious. "_ Hello, Stanley.”

**“That was your name for me, yes. Now go. You have chosen. You have listened. Your time is up. Leave my domain.”**

I don't need telling twice. Quickly, I scoop up my new things and scurry from the shop as fast as my legs will carry me. When I get outside, it's dark, even though it was early morning light when I'd gone in. Confused, I turn back, whether to get answers or just to reassure myself that I'm not insane, I don't know.

But it doesn't matter, because instead of Tanley's House of Eccentricities, there is nothing but a moonlit alleyway, with no evidence of there having been such a place to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eggspert.tumblr.com come and join the party my dudes


	36. The Beginnings of a Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hewwo I thought summer would be better stress wise but that was a fat lie so here ya go fellas

Evening light filters through the window in one corner of the room, turning everything a warm and hazy gold. My tunic is neatly folded on my bed, and I sit on the floor with my legs tucked beneath me. During the several hours spent in this position, I have entered a state of meditation in order to sift through older memories in the Fade.

I have seen windswept plains and trees full of twists and turns for years of reaching toward the sun. Then there is the razing of forests and brush, tents staked into the earth, and measly market stalls set up for bartering.

There is old blood spilled on old soil, but the same can be said for most anywhere that the _shemlen_ have tread.

Someone knocks at the door, pulling me abruptly from my trance.

With a cursory sweep of my aura, I deduce that this is not Rosalind, nor any mage for that matter. With a fluid movement, I ease myself upright, reaching for my tunic and pulling it over my head. It would not do to be seen in such a state of undress. “Yes? Who is it? What do you require?”

“Solas,” the heavily accented voice of a woman, the Seeker, floats through the door. She sounds almost panicked. I wonder what might have caused it. Cassandra is not a woman easily frightened. “Solas, have you seen the Handmaiden at all today?”

A small pulse of fear beats through me. “No, I have not left my quarters at all today. Why?” Approaching the door, I unlatch it and cautiously push it open to meet the worried stares of the Seeker, the child of the stone, and the mark-bearer.

“We think she's missing,” the qunari grits her teeth. I see her hands itch to grab her weapon. She longs for a physical _something_ to beat back, and judging by the defensive stance of Cassandra, she shares the sentiment.

“Missing?” I repeat, my throat suddenly dry. “For how long? When did she leave?”

“Sometime this morning, has to have been,” the storyteller crosses his arms, appearing concerned. “She was here last night and she slept in your room, right, Reaver? Seeker?”

“Yes,” Cassandra nods hurriedly, “she slept on the floor. She insisted on it. When we awoke she was downstairs eating breakfast. She must have left some time after that.”

“Interesting,” I murmur. The familiar sting of guilt stabs through me. I had sensed her this morning on the other side of my door, wanting to come in, greet me, check on my well-being, but ultimately doing none of these things once I had made it clear that I did not wish to be disturbed. “Are we certain she is in danger? She may simply be out seeing the sights of the city.”

The qunari purses her lips. “That's possible, sure. But we're in an unfamiliar place with people who have made it abundantly clear that we're unwelcome. I’d like to err on the side of caution when it comes to the safety of our group members.”

The tips of my ears redden. “Of course.”

“So how are we doing this?” Varric asks, leaning against the wooden slats of the door frame. “Are we pairing off? Going solo?”

“Split up individually,” the qunari answers without hesitation. “We can cover more territory that way, and we're all capable of defending ourselves if need be.”

Cassandra nods sharply. “I agree.”

“My second question: should one of us stay here in case she comes back?”

The four of us look from one to another, each visibly uncomfortable with the notion.

“Well, I'm not staying,” Kaaras growls. “She's my friend, and my Handmaiden _._ We've been in this together since we woke up in the same cell.”

“I'm not staying either, Reaver. I can talk to people. I have connections.”

“I also do not wish to stay,” Cassandra declares, spine stiffening at the thought. “The idea of sitting in the comfort of an inn, unaware of what goes on outside and waiting for all of you to return... I do not think I could bear it.”

All as one, the party turns to me. I subtly clear my throat and my hands fold themselves behind my back. “As a mage who is familiar with her aura, I believe that I might have the best chance at locating her.”

The group collectively deflates, though out of relief or resignation I do not know. “Well, now what?” Kaaras mutters.

The dwarf's eyes narrow, contemplative. Suddenly, he barks out a laugh. “We're all idiots. Why don't we just leave a note in your room? We can leave a message with the barkeep for good measure, too.”

“That is...not a bad idea,” Cassandra admits begrudgingly.

Barely able to contain his glee, Varric gasps, “What's this, Seeker? A _compliment?_ Directed at _me?_ Oh, things must be dire indeed for such a miracle to occur!”

“Contain yourself, dwarf,” she responds dryly. “It will not happen again.”

Plan decided upon, a note is written and left behind, belongings are gathered, and the four of us part ways to begin our search.

* * *

 

It is well past nightfall when, walking through the streets of Val Royeaux, I sense the familiar amber of her aura and sigh in relief. I turn a corner, not knowing what I expect to encounter, yet somehow _still_ not expecting what I see.

Instead of the dire scenarios I'm sure had been playing out in the minds of the other group members as well as mine, I am met with the simple sight of Rosalind sitting cross-legged on the ground with a book in her hands. She uses a finger to keep track of where she is on the page, quietly mouthing the words to herself like a child still not quite comfortable with reading inside their own head.

“There you are,” I move toward her. She startles abruptly, shrinking back like a rabbit caught in a hunter's stare.

“Oh, it's just—you. Hello,” she offers a small dip of her head and closes her book with a snap.

No longer in as much of a hurry, I approach her with practiced ease. Something about the set of her shoulders and the snappishness of her aura gives me cause for concern. “The others. They are searching for you.”

“Why?” her brow furrows. She appears genuinely puzzled. “I'd have been back eventually. It's not a big deal.”

_Is she blind? Does she not see the role she plays in all of this? She cannot simply wander off at any moment’s notice._

I fold my hands behind my back, staring down at her. She has to crane her neck up to meet my gaze. It must be uncomfortable, and yet she does so with her usual intense eye contact. It is almost...flattering. “You told no one where you were going, and you were gone for at least twelve hours. There are people here that would like both you and the Herald to leave the city immediately, preferably wrapped in shrouds and on the way to your funeral pyres.”

At that, she winces. “I don't know what scares me more: the fact that that's the first danger that came to your mind, or the fact that I don't have trouble believing it.”

“I might suggest the fact that your beliefs have no bearing on reality, and that you know it to be true regardless.”

“Ha,” she snorts, returning her gaze to the tome in her lap. “Yeah. Your having a keen sense of worst case scenarios doesn't surprise me.”

I appraise her silently. The light from the ensconced lantern above turns her hair a warm gold while casting much of her face in shadow. Her thumb moves in idle circles across the cover of the book, and her knuckles have whitened with their grip on the spine. She chews vacantly on her lower lip. “What troubles you?” I ask.

She stiffens. “Nothing.”

A chuckle escapes me at her indiscreet lie.“If you do not wish to speak of it, you do not have to, but do not tell me that there is nothing on your mind. I would find that unlikely no matter what the circumstance.”

Breathing out a small laughing kind of sound, she turns to shield her face from view, patting the stone bench just next to her. “Have a seat.”

“Why did you choose the ground when you could have used this?”

A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Why not? I like sitting on floors. Gives me room to spread out.”

“Naturally,” I remark before taking up a place on the bench.

There is a moment of near-silence in which Rosalind's thoughtful fingers drum out quiet beats upon the cover of her book. “So. Solas. You're actually one of the best people to talk to about this anyway, considering all the things you've ‘seen in the Fade.’”

_Ah, a question to do with spirits, the Fade, or perhaps ancient magicks?_

“In all your travels, in your great wealth of knowledge and experience,” she meets my gaze again, the light from the stars and the lantern above creating a nebula of white and gold in her eyes, “have you ever encountered beings that were not of this world? Gods, if you will, that take it upon themselves to meddle in the affairs of mortals.”

_What could have incited such a query?_

But I consider her question. Thinking of the Evanuris, the Forgotten Ones, and the Titans that act as pillars of the world. I respond, “I have known there to be many false gods in search of power or wealth, and many ancient, powerful creatures that have no ulterior designs, but never have I met an entity from another world.”

“Ah,” she purses her lips in an unsatisfied fashion, “well I appreciate it, thank you.”

“So impatient,” I raise a finger. Delving deep into the depths of my memory, I murmur, “I have not _met_ any of these meddling ‘gods’, but I can recall old legends _,_ mere whispers of legends really, that may be along the lines of what you seek.”

This apparently piques her interest enough for her to suddenly strain her whole body upward, as if a hidden puppeteer had pulled her strings taut. “Okay?”

“These were nothing more than children's stories, wives tales,” I warn. She does not seem deterred, however, if the firm clench of her jaw is anything to go by. My fingers find themselves wrapped around the straps of my pack, picking at stray threads. A small, pleased sigh escapes me. “If you insist.”

Popping her shoulders, the human woman stretches before springing to her feet. “You know, I think I do insist.” She gestures widely, wiggling her eyebrows. “We've got time to chat on our way, yeah? So let's walk. And let's chat.”

I smile ever so slightly, and I rise to accompany her. “As you wish.”

She pivots on her heel, nearly skipping with glee. “You were saying something about memories of whispers of long lost legends?”

“Something of that nature, yes,” I agree, structuring an explanation in my mind. “In the Fade, I have seen mothers tell their children stories of omnipresent beings, ones who paid exceptional attention to all the creatures in their domain. And, when they saw a great need, they would take the light from the stars above and spin that light into thread. This thread of starlight would then be used to weave mighty warriors or gifted poets, and they would always prove invaluable assets to their world.”

“That sounds amazing,” she toys with a stone amulet on a cord around her neck, one that I have never seen her wear before.  

_Why do you pay attention to what she wears?_

“It does,” I agree. “Although I do wonder where this sudden interest came from.”

“Oh, nowhere really,” Rosalind shakes her head, smiling enigmatically. “I'd just gotten sorta wrapped up in a conversation earlier in the day and… Well. You know. Thank you for sharing, Solas. It's been informative.”

“Informative?” I cannot help but snort. Her head jerks in surprise at the sound, and her eyes narrow. “That, again, was simply a story. There is no historical evidence that corroborates the existence of such things.”

Pursing her lips, she waves a dismissive hand at me. “That doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

She seems so certain of that. If only she knew just _how much_ I have done to this world to need forgiveness.

Almost as if she senses this, she looks at me out of the corner of her eye and says, “But I'll forgive you anyway, if it makes you feel any better.”

I understand that she speaks in jest, but it fills me nonetheless with an unexpected warmth, followed immediately by the arrival of my most faithful companion: guilt.

A new silence stretches between us, although it is a comfortable one, not the kind one hurries to break. Then, after we have traversed a few more blocks of the city, she asks a question so quiet I wonder if I was simply mistaken. Then she asks it again, more loudly this time. “Why did you lock yourself up in your room last night, Solas? I was going to ask if you'd wanted to come with me this morning, but I could sense that you didn't want to be disturbed.”

“Hmm.” Mulling over what I can actually tell her, I simply say, “I required time to myself to think and meditate. The inn was loud, as was my mind. In order to quiet one, I had to quiet the other.”

Rosalind takes that in, processes it, and hums thoughtfully in response. “And before that? I remember our auras...touched. They've done that before, but this time was different. I could tell you were having a nice time. Then this cold fear washed over you and you cut off contact instantly. And this whole time that we've been talking, you've been _very_ careful about where you allow the boundaries of your aura to touch. Did I do something wrong? Did it make you uncomfortable? I'm sorry if I—.”

“No,” I hurriedly interject, somewhat amazed at how much she had intuited from my behavior. “You have done nothing incorrectly. I would have warned you of the possibility, but frankly I had not known it _was_ a possibility.”

“What?” Her head swivels toward me, and while I do not met her gaze, I can sense it focused intently upon my face. “What possibility?”

_The beginnings of a bond._

“The beginnings of… a newer and deeper connection, through our auras. At present, we can sense surface-level emotion, most mages can, but last night I heard one of your thoughts. I sought to cut contact before I gleaned anything you did not want to be known.”

Her jaw drops. “O-oh,” she stutters.

“It was a common thing to see among the Elvhen of old. Bonds, they called them.”

“Bonds?” Rosalind repeats, brows knitted together. “That sounds kind of... romantic.”

_Hands trailing down cheeks and jaws and necks and ever lower. They are aware of every vivid detail in my mind, just as I am aware of every detail in theirs. It is blissful, this control._

I feel the tips of my ears turn red, and I silently curse. “Not necessarily. Bonds formed between Elvhen who were close to one another often. It could be a purely platonic relationship, or romantic, as you said. A bond would have linked two people's thoughts and feelings across great distances, but I imagine it would not have so strong an effect here and now. Most likely, it would allow thoughts to be gleaned only if our energies were in shared contact.”

She chews on her lip as she listens, and, hesitantly, the warm amber of her aura brushes against mine. I tense, barely containing a shudder, and I try not to think on whether it would have been from surprise or from pleasure.

She must mistake my reaction for discomfort, for she immediately withdraws, shamefaced.

_It is for the best,_ I tell myself sternly. I do not object to her retreat. “Thank you,” Rosalind says, and I can tell that she means it, “for telling me about why you left instead of keeping it to yourself. I probably would've beat myself up over it forever otherwise.”

“It is nothing to concern yourself about,” I say. _It most certainly is,_ I think. “The link between us is weak and undeveloped. Over time, it may dissipate completely. So long as we are careful, it should pose no issue.”

“Right,” she murmurs. “No issue at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://eggspert.tumblr.com 
> 
> Issa party


	37. Madame de Fer's Shindig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm really sorry about how long it took to update, but Detroit has me feeling so inspired! I've already written like fifteen thousand words for a DBH fic (it's called Machines Don't 'Flirt' if any of you are also thirsting) and I feel like I'm thriving. 
> 
> Rest assured, I'll still be updating, it just might be a little slower until I've worked the other one out of my system.

“You know, Kaaras, you clean up real nice,” I say, surprised despite myself. The qunari’s newly cleaned white hair is tied into glossy braids that fall past her shoulders. A simple red-violet shirt drapes over her torso, tucked into simple black trousers. The collar and flared sleeves of the shirt are embroidered with gold thread that glimmers when it catches the light.

“You're not so bad yourself,” she replies. I glance once again at the full length mirror in front of us, taking in my change of attire. A sky blue tunic hugs against my skin, belted at the waist with the hem falling halfway to my knees over charcoal grey pants. The material is comfortable, breathable, and easy to move in. “Laurel, you're a miracle worker.”

The seamstress wrings her hands and turns red with the praise, but she looks pleased to have received the compliment nonetheless. “It was no-nothing, my-my lady.”

“No, really, this is phenomenal.” Kaaras agrees with me.

“Thank you,” she smiles, scurrying from the room both to add our three sovereigns to her stash and to escape our praise.

Turning to Kaaras, I rest my hands on my hips. “So, are we going to Madame de Fer’s shindig later today?”

“Shindig?” the qunari repeats, a fond expression on her face.

“Yeah. Like, a party. Normally used to refer to way cooler parties than any thrown by an Orlesian, but I digress. The word shindig is just really...fun,” I finish lamely.

She hums in reply. “What do you think it'll be like? Madame de Fer’s _shindig_ I mean.”

My nose wrinkles. “It'll be like going to a party where a bunch of snakes have put on masks and fancy silks, and when you turn around they've already got the knife they'll use to stab you in the back.”

A gleam comes into her violet eyes as she grins widely at me. “Taking the optimistic view, I see.”

“I always do.”

* * *

 

It doesn't take long for Vivienne to get through the whole bit with freezing the marquis and allowing Kaaras to make the choice about whether he gets to live or not. Without hesitation, Kaaras says that the man doesn't deserve to die for such a petty offense, passing Vivienne's little test.

 _Why are Orlesians so flashy and melodramatic?_ I wonder, taking a sip of the rose water I'd swiped from a passing tray.

Afterward, Vivienne ushers Kaaras upstairs so that they might come to an agreement. I might have gone, but I want Kaaras to play the central role in everything. There should be no doubt about who is Inquisitor material and who is not.

Vivienne makes eye contact with me, and her mouth curves into a cold smile as they depart. “I shall return your friend to you soon, dear. Don't fret.”

“If there is anyone that I trust to handle themselves, it's her, Madame de Fer.”

“That's wonderful to hear, dear,” her eyes narrow, calculating something, and the two of them vanish.

That leaves me alone inside the main reception hall. Solas, Varric, and Cassandra are elsewhere. They might be waiting for us outside. Soon my mind is conjuring images of the three of them lurking in the courtyard rose bushes in front of Duke Bastien’s manor, ducking any time a waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. A small chuckle escapes me.

“Do I amuse you?” A man in a golden half-mask and puffy blue trousers stands in front of me. His cheeks have a ruddy hue to them, probably from the champagne. He sways a little on his feet.

“Oh, no,” I laugh, a little embarrassed. “Just something I was thinking about.”

“I see. And what were you thinking about, _mon chére?_ ”

“Wondering what my friends might be doing. It's not a big deal.”

“Ah,” he nods politely. Before any awkward silence can be drawn out too long between us, he hurries onward. “You are with the Inquisition, yes?

My expression turns quizzical. They had announced our titles as we'd come in, and there had just been a rather overt spectacle with Kaaras, Vivienne, and I, with that marquis at the center of it. _That's either not really what he's asking, or he's too drunk to notice anything,_ I conclude. “Yes. Why?”

“It is just that you are far too fair a maiden to be caught up in such madness. It truly is a shame.”

_Did he just call me a fair maiden? Wow. Somebody's stretching._

_What do you think he wants?_

_I don't know. Not gonna pretend to understand an Orlesian nobleman._

“Who would you rather be caught up in this madness? Someone ugly? Why would that be preferable? I guess I’m not seeing the correlation here.” I keep my face carefully schooled into neutrality.

“Ha…” he laughs, appearing faintly alarmed. “An excellent point, Lady Handmaiden. It seems I misspoke. I did not mean it quite so... literally.”

I nod politely. “Yeah.”

“What I meant to say was that you are...lovely…and...married?”

“What?” My head snaps around to face him.

His eyes narrow through the slits in his mask. “Not _married_ , then. Engaged? Do you have a lover? Multiple lovers _,_ even?”

My nose wrinkles against my will, as if I've just caught a whiff of the most rancid meal imaginable. “No. God, no. What are you getting at?”

“So you remain unpromised to another.”

“Yes?”

“Fascinating.”

“If you say so.” This is so uncomfortable.

“Believe me, it _is_ fascinating. One never knows when such information could prove useful.”

The conversation dwindles into silence. It isn't as awkward as it could be, but it's still awkward. No matter how many forced smiles and pointed glances I give him, he doesn't get the hint. Or maybe he does and just refuses to act on it. The other partygoers give me a wide berth, as though they think I've got the plague.

 _It's odd_ , I think to myself. Surely they should be flocking to greet me, at least curious about the Inquisition if they aren't jumping to get in our good graces.

_Someone's being egotistical._

The man's jaw sets into a firm line. “I tire of this charade. You are not Orlesian, not familiar with the Game, and so you have the potential to be an infinitely less vapid conversationalist than anyone else here. I only asked about the marriage bit because I owe someone a favor, and information serves just as well. So. What do you like to do?” At my nonplussed, confused look, the nobleman elaborates. “As a hobby, I mean.”

“Is this just another bit of ‘useful information?’”

“No, _mon chére._ Just my curiosity.”

Deciding that the man might just be serious, I tentatively respond, “A lot of things. I like to read. Sometimes I write. Other times I draw and cook and argue. Since you seemed to be interested, I do in fact enjoy stimulating conversation.”

“Like this one?”

An undignified snort escapes me. “Not in the slightest.” 

He smiles, just slightly. “What would you like to talk about, then, if you find this so dull?”

“Do you mean that literally? Are you genuinely interested?”

He tilts his head, considering me with gleaming eyes. “Yes.”

There is something appealing about venting or ranting to a complete stranger. There are no consequences. It doesn't matter what they think of you, because the odds are that you'll never meet again. There is very little harm in such a thing.

_Very little harm in ranting to an Orlesian nobleman about whom you know next to nothing? Sure. Who is he affiliated with? Does he support the Inquisition? Is he a spy? Secretly evil? Does he have political clout? Josephine would have a stroke if you offended someone important._

_Fine. I won't talk about politics. I won't talk about religion._

After a long conversation about the possibility of life on foreign moons that proves to be surprisingly refreshing, the man catches sight of a slender candle marked to show the hour.  

He sighs, almost sounding regretful. “ _Mon cher,_ it seems my time with you must come to a close. It has been a most novel experience. I do hope I see you—” he hiccups, “—again. _Adieu, mon chére, adieu_.” He wiggles his fingers at me, and when he leaves he seems much steadier on his feet.

_Good. Maybe he's sobering up._

A masked woman fluttering a pink fan near her face approaches me almost immediately. “Comte de Maurier has spoken to no one but you this whole night. You simply _must_ tell me what he wanted!”

“Uh, nothing really. Just, well, we share an appreciation for extraterrestrial bodies.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I scratch at the back of my head. “Aha, um, nothing. I'm sorry. I have to go. My escorts are waiting for me.” Bowing slightly, I duck and weave my way through the reception hall.

A familiar drawl halts me in my tracks. “Leaving so soon, dear? Rude, but not unwarranted.” Vivienne slinks out from a side room, Kaaras looming behind her.

My face burns. “I apologize, Madame de Fer. I did not know how long you and the Herald might be.”

She arches a thinly shaped brow, looking extremely unimpressed. “I see. Not worth the wait after all?”

I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to figure out something to say.

“You needn't bother, dear. I am only teasing. Go on, go on. This little soirée is a bore anyway.” She inclines her head, looking every bit the court enchanter she is. “I shall join you in Haven as promptly as I am able.”

“We look forward to your arrival,” Kaaras nods, bringing a heavy hand down on my shoulder and forcibly steering me away.

“As do I. I believe we shall accomplish great things together, my dears. Great things indeed.”

* * *

 

I spend that night fiddling with the metallic, spherical, communication devices that Stanley had given me. There are runes and spiraling lines engraved into the sides of it, and with enough poking and prodding I come to realize that there is a groove I can press my fingernail into in order to send a call to the other device. I figure out it's working when the other sphere suddenly heats up. A single rune glows blue-white, and I poke it experimentally.

A static hum fills the space, and I flinch, worried that Kaaras or Cass might suddenly lurch up into wakefulness, blades half-drawn. Nonetheless, I pull my blanket over my head and flatten myself more closely against the cold floorboards. “Hello?” I whisper into one.

From the other comes an equally hesitant, “hello?” It's a clear sound, like another version of myself speaks to me rather than a recording.

There are more secrets to be found in these things, that I am sure of.

I jot down notes in an abbreviated hand, even messier because they're written in the dark. The rest of the night slips through my fingers in that fashion, although I do pass out for a few hours of blissful unconsciousness.

If I wander the Fade at all, it's not memorable.


	38. Sataa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof it's been awhile, huh?

“So,” Rosalind begins, leaning so far back in her chair I'm surprised she doesn't fall over. “We're going to have to choose between the mages and the Templars pretty soon, right?” In her hands she holds some beat-up book on herbalism: _Advanced Herbal Formulae_. Her gaze trails idly down the pages, following along with her fingers.

“I think that's what's going to happen eventually.” I'd been trying not to think about it for the past couple of weeks. Josephine and Leliana had been advocating quite vocally on behalf of the mages, but Cullen was resolute in his defense of the Templars’ ability to solve the problem. “What do _you_ think we should do, since I'm getting everyone else's unasked-for opinions anyway?”

She offers a wry smile. “I prefer we go for the mages, but you probably figured I'd say that, considering the fact that I myself am a mage.”

“Mm hmm. Sure. Fine. But _why?_ ”

She raises an amused brow. “You really want me to go into the moral quandary that is the Mage-Templar war? I think I'd bore you.”

I shake my head. “I happen to agree when it comes to the morality of choosing the mages, for my own reasons, but my question is one of the physical _ability_ of either of them to close the Breach.”

“Oh that's easy,” she waves her hand, snorting as though I'd asked a question as simple as what she wanted to eat for dinner. “Both of them will work out fine. Mages pump in a shit ton of magic and cause the Breach to collapse in on itself, while the Templars just nullify the magic and seal it that way.”

It almost makes sense when she says it like that. But. “How could you _possibly_ be so sure?”

Sometimes, Rosalind gets this really enigmatic look about her, like she knows something I don't and is patiently waiting for me to figure it out. This is one of those times. “I've got a really really good feeling about it. That's all.”

Abruptly, her face pales, and she lets out a soft gasp of realization. With almost frantic intensity, she flips through her book until she settles on a page she wants. She squints, purses her lips, moves the book closer to her face, and exhales through her nose. “Can we go on a little shopping trip? There are some ingredients I need to pick up.”

“I'm not opposed to it. What do you need them for?”

“A potion.”

I throw a pillow at her and it hits her square in the face. “Funny, I figured that out on my own. What’s the _potion_ for, dummy?”

When all she does is wiggle her eyebrows at me, I sigh. “Fine. Let's go.”

She rolls off the bed and smiles reassuringly, tucking the book against her side. Then her head cocks curiously to the side. “I have to admit, though, I'm wondering why _you_ side with the mages.”

I look at her, considering. No one I've known before has ever needed to ask, and no one I haven't known has bothered asking.

“Looks like I'll have to tell you on the way, then, huh?”

We wrap our cloaks tightly around ourselves, and I raise my hood to cover my horns. There's really no point to hiding them, but it makes me feel more comfortable. It pays to be the Herald of Andraste, though. Now I have a halfway decent answer if some vendor demands to know the business of the suspicious qunari lurking around near the vegetable stalls.

“After you, my lady Herald,” Rosalind dips into a curtsy that somehow oozes sarcasm, even as she holds the door of our room open.

“Why thank you, my lady Handmaiden,” I shoot back, sweeping through the threshold with dramatic flourish.

* * *

 

_Skin a dark grey, like staring into the eye of a storm. Flinty black eyes that hold warmth in their clever depths, if you know where to look for it. White horns that curl up over his head, glinting with a dull pearlescent sheen. He's all angles: cheekbones jut from his face, his jaw bone looks hewn from granite, the caps of his knees and his elbows could gouge a careless person's eye out._

_Where I am curved and muscled, he is sharp and lean._

_Then, I look at his hands. I find the softness in his handling of Mother, the surety in the hold on his staff. A smile flashes across his face, like the white burn of lightning._

_“Long time, no see. Sister.”_

* * *

 

“You have a brother?” Rosalind asks, taking a vial of powdered deathroot from the man hovering behind the counter.

“Yes,” I nod. “My parents, they, er, were part of the Qunari. My father was a soldier and my mother was his overseer. They admired each other, formed an emotional attachment, and from what I understand, had quite a lot of sex. That in itself is unusual among Qunari, because they don't use intercourse to express love for one another.”

“Ugh,” Rosalind's lip curls up in disgust. “I did _not_ need to know that, Kaaras.”

I huff, offering her a soft smile. “What? Did you think I came from smoke and ash, spat out into the world like a mewling fire-newt? Are you curious or not?”

Rolling her eyes, she decides, “I am.”

“Back to where I left off: my parents, sex, lots of it.”

“Yep. Got that part. Let's move on, thanks.”

Playfully, I poke her in the shoulder. “If you interrupt me again I'll go into detail about their favorite positions.” When Ross remains silent, other than a blued-steel glare, I continue. “So, one of these periods of intimacy resulted in a little Qunari.”

“You?”

“Reverse cowherd.”

“Reverse cowh—?” Horrified realization dawns in her eyes. “Oh god, Kaaras. I don't even wanna _imagine—_ ”

“My brother,” I continue, not even making an attempt to wipe the smugness from my expression. “Now as I'm sure you're aware, the Qunari take children and have them raised and evaluated by the Tamassrans. And that was the plan, at least at first. But when he was born, my mother had this…premonition, I guess you'd call it. She felt that if she gave up the child, something horrible would come of it, so she did the unthinkable. She hid it. Raised it in secret. And a good thing too, because two or three years later it came to light that the child was a mage.”

A sad kind of weariness settles over Rosalind. The weight of knowledge sinks onto her shoulders. She shudders. “He would've been made a Saarebas.”

I admit, I'm a little surprised she knows the term, but it makes the telling easier. “You know what that would've meant for him? His life?”

“Yes.” Rosalind nods once, sharply. “His mouth would've been sewn shut. He would've been treated as an animal, a weapon for the sole use of the Qunari.”

A chill seems to come over the Val Royeaux marketplace just then. The banners flap half-heartedly in the sputtering breeze, more dull and sun-bleached than they had first appeared when we arrived in the city. “So, to avoid this, my mother stole away in the night, pregnant once more with another child, and she joined a band of Tal-Vashoth. She already had Sataa: the world, and now she had Kaaras: the navigator.”

* * *

 

_“Come on, then,” Asala waves me forward, plops a driftwood shield and a blunted practice sword in my hands, and settles into a fighting stance. “You’re going to represent the Valo-kas one day, and all our fighters gotta be worth their salt. Got it?”_

_“Yes,” I mumble. My fingers curl around the hilt of the weapon, feeling it's weight._

_“What was that?” Asala snaps._

_“Yes, Asala.” I straighten to attention. A spike of jealousy flares through me. Sataa doesn't have to do this. He just reads books and twirls a big stick around._

_I receive one of her rare, thin-lipped smiles. “Very good, little one. Now, begin.” She lunges at me before I can think, bringing her blade down in an arcing motion. I block it instinctively, but the force of the blow knocks the sword from my hands. My wrist feels like it was very close to snapping._

_“Wrong! Never,_ ever _use the edge of your blade to block a blow. It'll damage the sword, and that thing is worth more than you’ll ever be. You have a shield, don't you? Use it!”_

_“Yes.” The word sounds meek, even to my own ears._

_“What?”_

_“Yes, Asala!” I shout, fishing the sword out of the mud._

_“Now let us do this again, and be quick about it.”_

* * *

 

Rosalind’s face is intent on yours, quietly calculating. “And your father? Did he go with you, to the Valo-kas?”

“He was killed in Seheron before he even knew I existed.”

Whatever Ross had expected to hear, it wasn't that. “Oh. I’m...sorry.” Her jaw ticks out. “I don't know what to say.”

I shrug, ignoring the vaguely fearful looks from the passers-by on the street. “There's nothing that needs to be said. I never knew him. Even if he'd lived, I have no way of knowing whether or not he would've come with my mother.”

“That doesn't make it better.”

“Doesn't make it worse, either.”

“And your brother—Sataa?—he's still with the Valo-kas?”

“I think so. There's no reason for him not to be. I won’t see him until after the Breach is closed. Not unless he comes looking for me, or looking for a worthwhile cause to fight for.” I sigh fondly. “He'd be the type.”

At this new stall, Rosalind silently signals to the vendor that she'd like a bunch of vibrant purple flower petals. “He sounds neat.”

“He is,” I agree. “I think the two of you would get along.”

The human turns ruddy at the face. “Really? Why?”

I chew idly on the inside of my cheek, thinking. “You're both...eccentric. Both mages. Both driven to help people.” She turns her face away from me, disbelieving. Taking this as a sign of discomfort, I switch subjects. “Did you know I wasn't even supposed to be at the Conclave? Sataa was. Mother wouldn't let him go, in the end. She had a bad feeling about it. Looking back, I'm glad that he remained. Who knows if he would still be alive right now?”

* * *

 

_“Mother, please. What harm could come of it? I am a mage. It makes more sense for me to be there than any of the Valo-kas.” Sataa argues. While his anger is evident in the way he holds himself, his tone of voice is clipped, controlled. He never could be very forceful with her._

_“I worry, my son. The—” she fumbles for the right words in Common, then switches to Qunlat out of frustration. She keeps her voice low, so the other Tal-Vashoth don't hear._ “The visions, feelings. Death awaits you, World, if you go to this thing-gathering. Stay, and let Navigator go in your place.”

_“Why should death await me and not Kaaras?” Sataa demands to know. He jabs the end of his staff in my direction._

_“I do not know,” Mother hisses under her breath, although there is no malice in her gaze._ “This is my final decision. Stay with us. Live for us. I sacrificed everything for you, my World. Please do not squander it.”

 _Mother was pleading with him now? This must be serious, and Sataa knows it. He looks at the ground, fire seeming to burn in his soul. “As you wish, Mother._ I will stay. For you. _”_

* * *

 

Ross’s pale fingers wrap around my wrist, warm and firm, pulling me from my thoughts. “I am glad that he is alive, and I am glad that you are, too. Believe me, the world could've done a lot worse as far as Heralds of Andraste go.”

If she were anyone else, someone not in so similar a situation, I might have thought the compliment to be a backhanded one. But she isn't, and _it_ isn't.

I smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This is the one year anniversary of Full Immersion, my first fic on this site, and we haven't even gotten to Redcliffe yet lol. This year, in total, I've written 118,746 words worth of fic on AO3.
> 
> I just want to thank all of you, from the bottom of my heart, for supporting me in my writing endeavors.
> 
> So... Thank you. Have a wonderful day.


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